#as if he lurks on the edge of practically every conversation waiting

[skyriderwednesday]

Imo, the soundtrack really doesn't do Hydra justice, but like. In the opposite of doing him dirty, because by leaving out 90% of his context and giving him a (weirdly sinister sounding) extended version of his song, it makes him seem way too cool and mysterious than what he really is. Which is an overenthusiastic dork who thinks hydrogen power is really cool, you guys.

[xomaleyaxo]

Stolen Glances → Blackpink 5th Member

Synopsis: A long-hidden attraction is revealed, leading to an unexpected connection and the start of something new.

Wc: 2.6k

Pt 2: Stolen Hearts

"Never doing this shit again," Mirae thought bitterly after her most recent breakup with In-guk. The memories of their time together still stung, and she was annoyed at how things had turned out—how she had given so much of herself, only for it to end in heartache. The hard decision to walk away had been the right one, but that didn't make it any easier.

She had been through enough. Too many relationships that promised everything and delivered nothing but disappointment. So she swore it off. Love, dating, any of it. It wasn’t worth the pain.

She had decided to take time for herself, to learn to enjoy her own company and focus on everything but love. And for the most part, she did just that—spent a year rediscovering who she was outside of romance, finding peace in her independence.

That is, until Kim Mingyu walked into her life.

Or, more accurately, waltzed back into it. He'd always been there, lurking on the edges of her world, a friend of a friend. Someone familiar but distant, never someone she'd ever imagined in that way.

Yet, there was something different this time. Every time Mingyu was around, Mirae felt an unexplainable sense of comfort and ease that she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was as if his presence was a balm for her weary heart, a soothing reminder of simplicity and genuine connection.

She found herself looking forward to their interactions, enjoying the effortless conversations and the way he seemed to bring a sense of calm to her chaotic world. It wasn’t that she wanted to ask him out or even entertain the idea of starting a new relationship—she just liked being around him.

"Why’s there a little sparkle in your eye?" Yugyeom said teasingly as he watched Mirae walk toward him, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. She had been socializing with a few of the other guests, including Mingyu, at the gathering, but clearly, he had noticed something more.

"What do you mean?" she asked, giggling slightly, though she knew exactly what he was hinting at. Yugyeom always had a way of seeing right through her, no matter how hard she tried to act nonchalant.

"Mhmmm, acting like you don’t know what I’m saying, huh?" he teased back, leaning in slightly as if they were sharing a secret. "I saw the way you were looking at Mingyu. And don't even try to deny it."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. "You're being ridiculous, I wasn’t—"

"Please," he interrupted, chuckling. "You were practically glowing every time you guys were near each other. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been orbiting around him all night."

Mirae bit her lip, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "It’s not like that," she muttered, though even she could hear how weak her protest sounded.

"Yeah, sure," Yugyeom drawled, his grin widening. "Listen, Mirae, I’ve known you long enough to know when you're smitten. And from what I know... Mingyu's been waiting for you to notice him for a long time."

She blinked, thrown off by the sudden revelation. "Wait, what?"

Yugyeom nodded, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "You heard me. The guy’s been into you for ages. He just never had the guts to say anything because, you know... you guys were never around each other enough. But trust me, he’s had a crush on you forever."

Mirae blinked, trying to process what he was saying. "Wait, Mingyu? You’re joking, right?"

Yugyeom’s chuckle made it clear he wasn’t. "Come on, Mirae, don’t act so surprised. You really didn’t notice? He lights up like a Christmas tree every time you’re around. He’s been keeping it low-key, though, probably because you’ve been through a lot. But it’s pretty obvious to everyone else.'

Mirae felt a warmth creeping into her cheeks. Mingyu? The same Mingyu she’d only ever thought of as just another person who floated around in the same circles? She’d always assumed they were friendly because of their mutual connections, never once considering that there might be anything deeper there. He was familiar, yes—comfortable, even—but never someone she had really considered in a romantic light.

"I had no idea," she admitted, feeling a mix of confusion and disbelief. She looked across the room, where Mingyu stood laughing with some of their friends, completely unaware of the conversation happening about him.

"Yeah, that’s kind of the point," Yugyeom said with a laugh. "He never pushed because he knew you were focused on other things—your career, your past relationships. But believe me, that guy has had his eyes on you for a long time."

Mirae’s heart started to race as her mind replayed the moments she’d shared with Mingyu recently—the casual smiles, the effortless conversations, the way she’d started to notice how his presence brought her comfort she hadn’t expected. Was that why things had felt different with him lately? She thought she was just being paranoid, reading too much into things, but now it all made sense.

"I just... I don’t know," she muttered, suddenly feeling nervous. "I’ve always thought of him as just... there. A friend. Someone in the background."

"Exactly," Yugyeom said, leaning in with a teasing glint in his eye. "But he’s not just a background character, is he? Not anymore."

Mirae bit her lip, torn between the safety of keeping things the way they were and the thrill of exploring something new. "But what if I’m not ready? I’ve been through too much, and I’m not sure I can handle putting myself out there again."

Yugyeom softened, giving her a supportive smile. "Mirae, you deserve happiness. You’ve been guarding your heart for so long, but maybe it’s time to let someone in—someone who’s been waiting for you to see him. Mingyu’s not just anyone; he’s someone who’s always been quietly there for you. Maybe this time, it’s worth taking the risk."

Mirae glanced back at Mingyu, watching him from across the room as his laughter filled the air. She had spent so long thinking of him as just another face in her world, but now she was starting to wonder if he was meant to be something more—someone she could finally let in.

Maybe Mingyu was worth the leap.

As the night progressed, Mirae found herself quietly watching as Mingyu made his way over to Yugyeom, joining in on the laughter and easy conversation. She leaned against the wall, eyes following him, taking in how effortlessly he fit into the group. His laughter was infectious, his smile bright, and for a moment, she caught herself staring—really staring. He was undeniably handsome, but it was more than that. There was a warmth to him that drew people in, including her.

They had known of each other for a long time, always moving in similar circles, but never quite connecting like this. And now, with that new knowledge from Yugyeom—that Mingyu had liked her for ages—it complicated everything. She couldn't deny that there was something different between them now, something she hadn't felt before.

But Mirae had been down this road before. She had felt this spark with others, only to have it fizzle out or crash in a mess of hurt and regret. The fear of ruining what they had—this easy, natural friendship—was gnawing at her. What if this went wrong? What if she misread the signs or rushed into something that would only leave them both feeling broken?

Mirae sighed softly, pulling her gaze away from Mingyu and back to the drink in her hand. It was safer to leave things as they were, to pretend this pull toward him wasn’t growing stronger with every smile he flashed her way. But deep down, she knew it was already too late. The feeling was there, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

But Yugyeom, well, he was never someone to let things slide. He’d known both of them for years and could see the way their eyes lingered on each other, the way their conversations flowed with an ease that went beyond friendship. To him, it was obvious—they had something special. And being their mutual friend, he couldn’t help but feel it was his duty to give them that push in the right direction. He could tell that neither of them would take the leap on their own.

Yugyeom knew that despite Mirae now being aware of Mingyu's long-held feelings, she would never make the first move. Her hesitation, her fear of repeating past mistakes, held her back, and honestly, it frustrated him. He could see how well they fit together, how perfect they could be if they just let themselves take the risk. He had seen it time and time again, the subtle glances, the moments of quiet understanding between them.

He was tired of waiting for them to figure it out.

So, when the opportunity arose, he took matters into his own hands. Mingyu needed to know that this wasn’t one-sided, that Mirae wasn’t oblivious. Pulling him aside as the party wore on, Yugyeom wasted no time in spilling everything—Mirae's recent reaction to hearing about Mingyu's crush, the way she seemed torn between fear and interest.

“You’ve got to just go for it, man,” Yugyeom urged. “She’s scared, yeah, but she’s into you. You’re never going to know if you don’t try.”

Mingyu, caught off guard by the sudden push, looked over at Mirae, who was talking to someone across the room. He hesitated for a moment, nerves creeping in. "I don't want to make things awkward between us. What if it changes everything?"

Yugyeom shook his head. "You guys are already at that point. Trust me, it’s not going to get better if you sit around wondering. Just talk to her. You’ve liked her for ages, right? So go and tell her."

Mingyu stood there, listening to his own thoughts swirl, contemplating if he should take the risk. He trusted Yugyeom—after all, Yugyeom was closest to Mirae, and if anyone knew her true feelings, it was him. Still, doubt lingered. What if she didn’t feel the same way? What if their connection wasn’t as deep as he had hoped? He didn’t want to ruin the comfortable, unspoken bond they’d always had.

But he couldn’t keep standing on the sidelines.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and started walking toward her. With every step, his nerves surged, but he forced himself to stay calm. She didn’t notice him at first, lost in a conversation with one of her friends. But when she glanced up and met his gaze, her expression softened into a smile that made his heart race even more.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual, though his voice betrayed a hint of nervousness.

“Hey,” Mirae replied, her smile widening slightly. “What’s up?”

Mingyu hesitated for a brief second, then shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to appear relaxed. “I was just wondering... Do you want to maybe get out of here? Go for a walk or grab some air?”

Mirae blinked, a little surprised by the sudden offer, but nodded. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

They stepped outside into the cool night air, walking side by side. The sounds of the party faded behind them as they found a quiet spot, away from the crowd. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy with unspoken words, with things they had yet to say.

Mingyu glanced over at her, noticing how comfortable she seemed despite the quiet. He could feel the words bubbling up inside him, but his nerves kept tugging at him. Still, he knew this was it—if he didn’t say it now, he might never get another chance.

“So, uh... I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he started, his voice softer now. “For a while, actually.”

Mirae turned to him, curiosity in her eyes. “About what?”

He stopped walking, and she did too, facing him now. He could feel his pulse quicken, but he couldn’t back down. Taking another breath, he finally let it out.

“I’ve liked you... for a long time,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers. “I didn’t know if I should say anything because I didn’t want things to get weird between us, but I can’t keep pretending it’s not there. You don’t have to say anything, and I don’t want you to feel awkward, but... I needed to tell you.”

Mirae’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause around them. Mingyu’s heart was in his throat as he waited for her reaction, unsure of what would happen next. But then, Mirae’s lips parted, and her expression softened in a way that made his heart skip.

“Mingyu…” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked down, biting her lip as if trying to find the right words. When she finally looked up at him again, her eyes were filled with something tender and real.

“I… I like you too,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly, but there was no hesitation in her words. “I don’t know when it started, but I’ve been feeling it too. I guess I was just scared… scared to ruin what we have, and maybe scared to admit it to myself.”

Mingyu blinked, a wave of relief and disbelief washing over him. He had spent so long convincing himself that his feelings for her would always be one-sided, that this moment almost felt surreal. “You do?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as if he needed to hear it again, just to make sure.

Mirae nodded, her smile growing a little wider, a little more confident. “Yeah, I do. I guess I’ve been trying to push it down because I’ve been hurt before, you know? After everything… I wasn’t sure if I was ready to feel like this again. But with you…” She paused, taking a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his. “With you, it feels different. I feel safe.”

Mingyu’s heart swelled at her words. All the doubt, all the fear that had been gnawing at him moments before seemed to melt away. He took a step closer to her, his hand instinctively reaching for hers. When their fingers brushed, it felt like everything clicked into place.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he said softly, his voice steady now. “We can take this slow, whatever you need. I just… I’m glad I finally told you.”

Mirae squeezed his hand, a smile playing on her lips as she looked up at him. “I’m glad you did too. I think I’ve been waiting for this, even if I didn’t realize it.”

For a moment, they just stood there, the tension and uncertainty between them replaced by a quiet understanding. The night air wrapped around them, but all Mingyu could feel was the warmth radiating from her. He didn’t know where this would lead or what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

“I guess we should thank Yugyeom,” Mirae said with a soft laugh, breaking the silence. “He always knows, doesn’t he?”

Mingyu chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, that guy… He’s always been a step ahead of us.” He paused, then added, “But I’m glad he gave me the push I needed.”

Mirae smiled again, her eyes twinkling. “Me too.”

And with that, the weight of their unspoken feelings finally lifted, leaving behind only the thrill of what could be—the beginning of something new.

A/N: I loved incorporating Yugyeom into the story. He’s such a great friend to Mirae!

[bunnysbrainrot]

If You Change Your Mind - Ch. 2

Relationships: Dean x Reader, Friends to lovers Summary: After a confusing confession from Dean, you've spent many days processing his words. Though you had been in contact since, things still feel distant. Neither of you touched the subject since, but as it loomed over your head, you had to get some peace of mind. Content: NSFW content. Fluff, kissing, dry humping, and then some (you'll see what I mean).

You stared at your phone, eyes scanning over the last text you had sent Dean. The words laid plainly on the screen, reminding you of the risk you took until a reply came. It felt like your heart was in your throat, ears hot with anxiety. Hey, can we talk?

Ten minutes go by, still nothing. You hoped that he would be asleep, and it would be unaddressed by morning, completely ignored and avoided. Placing your phone down on the nightstand, you switched off your bedside lamp and slipped under the covers.

Until the buzz of your phone snapped you back to attention.

Shooting up in bed you reached for your phone. It was Dean, which granted some relief, but you had yet to read the message.

About what?

A series of typos sat in the text box from the nerves that caused your hands to tremble. You sorted through the different ways you could tell him. That you wanted to talk to him about what he said. About how he wanted to try for you both, together. But only if things were better. You had yet to explain to him that you had endured so much alongside the Winchester brothers, and that that alone should prove your devotion. You had already struggled in these past six months, and the brothers had been your biggest support. How different, or worse, could things get? The Winchesters, seemingly, could battle just about anything that's thrown at them. In a way they were practically invincible, always fighting back. This is what called to you when you met the brothers and learned about the monsters that lurked in broad daylight. To fight alongside someone else through thick or thin was something that gave you a sense of pride, of purpose.

There wouldn't be an easy way to talk to Dean about this - to him, it could seem like you were just trying to coax him out of the boundary he made. But, it could be worth a try to share your feelings with him regardless.

I was thinking about last week - I had a few more things to say. It can wait for another time though, I know it's late.

You sat the phone on your lap, expecting a quick reply. Fortunately you were right, seeing a text that read:

It's been a long day. You get some rest, and we can talk about this in the morning, k?

His casual texting habit was back, to your relief. When he would get heated, Dean would become far more passive aggressive. That kind of attitude was what kept you from addressing the tension for this long. There as simply no way of knowing how it would've affected either of you if you didn't wait. Fingers padding on the phone screen, you gave him one final text for the evening.

See you in the morning, Dean. Sleep well.

--

The clock read 2:26 A.M. as you lay in bed, staring lazily at the ceiling. To your dismay you hadn't been able to fall asleep, chocking it up to nerves of the conversation you would have in a mere few hours. Releasing a sigh, you flipped off the covers, slipped on some house shoes and made your way to the kitchen.

"Some tea should help," you muttered to yourself.

You turned a corner, jolting at the sight of a bewildered Dean, looking just as shocked as you. A quiet moment passes to let you calm yourselves, though your nerves still remained on edge.

Dean cleared his throat, "Can't sleep?"

"You too, huh?"

He nodded with a smile, sticking his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. A while back, you insisted on him wearing more comfortable clothes to bed, showing him a brand you highly recommended. Ever since that day, he wore them to bed every night. He did truly seem more rested in the past few months. You gave him a weak smile in return.

"Did... did you still want to wait until the morning?" You broached.

"Is it what's keeping you awake?"

You give a small nod, your silence telling him everything he needed to know. It would be better to do this now. Hell, it was keeping him awake, too. Placing a hand on your shoulder, his eyes were warm and inviting, somehow without a hint of sorrow like before.

"We can talk about it in my room," he offered, stepping past you to guide the way to his bedroom. You had only been in it one other time, as he kept most things private, and could recall the minimalist design, with a sense of coziness to it.

As you both stepped through the door, the smell of sandalwood and pine filled your nose. Unmistakably the smell of Dean Winchester. A smile tugged at your lips while you watched Dean close the bedroom door, motioning to the bed for you to take a seat. He kept some distance, but took a spot on the bed alongside you.

"So, you wanna start?" Dean requested.

You sighed, adhering to the half-assed script you made for this.

"You said that we couldn't be together unless things get better. Dean, I'm not sure if any of this will get... 'better'. You've always been fighting something, there's hardly a time where things are perfect. I learned that when I became a hunter, too," Dean's eyes locked onto you as you spoke, listening intently to your words.

"Things might not get better, but I think it's a bullshit reason for you to just give it all up. Hell, Sam's a weak spot for you, and the bad guys took advantage of you for it. But it never mattered in the end. Because Sam made you stronger."

Dean looked toward the space between you on the bed, his hand inches away from yours, yet impossible to move. He wanted nothing more than to reach for you, to comfort you, to show that he was listening.

"I think... that it could be like that for us, too."

The noise in the room dropped to an empty silence, with both you and Dean looking at each other, as if there was nothing else in the room. In the world. All there was left was you.

"I," he began, "I thought about that, too. Believe me, I did. I tried like hell to think of a world where this wouldn't be so hard for us. But I also know that, in all that prophecy crap, that my life was never something I could choose. It was going to be a challenge no matter what. The big bad would find me one day, and I had to face it."

It was your turn to listen, watching his face change as he spoke - ranging from frustration, to exasperation, to something akin to hopefulness.

"What you said made me think. Like, really think, that maybe if there is a risk, maybe it would be worth it. Not for the thrill, or for the selfishness, but to choose myself for a change. And to choose you, too. 'Cause, honestly?"

A warm hand cupped your cheek, turning your head to face him dead on. His palms were rough, calloused from years of wielding weapons and tools.

Dean's eyes flashed with an earnest glint, "You were right."

"What do you mean?" You asked.

"About changing my mind," he leaned in toward you, his gaze drifting down to your lips. With your heart fluttering in your chest, you closed your eyes until the two of you shared the same air, your quick, shallow breaths mixing with his shakier ones. "I can't promise you everything, but I swear... on my life. I'm gonna keep you safe."

One of your hands had found Dean's in the midst of the talking, intertwining your fingers into his. Knowing the intentions behind his words left you breathless, relief was too little of a word to describe what you felt in that moment. The gap between you closed as Dean's lips met yours, fitting perfectly as the two of you pushed things further. The hand that was once on your cheek now carded its way into your hair, rough fingers weaving around until he had you in a secure hold. You groaned against his mouth, to which he replied with a whine of his own.

You closed the gap, letting your body fall into his. Dean's touch was gentle in contrast to his rough hands, freeing from your intertwined hands and sliding to your thigh. Warmth radiated from his skin onto yours, sending an ache through your body for more. Dean's groans filled your senses while they followed your own, your own duet of pleasure and release. His hands loosened to find your hips, tugging you ever closer until you had shifted into his lap. The stubble around his lips chaffed against your skin but went ignored. There was no time to mind that when your mind was lost in his touch. As you had dreamt about before, Dean's lips were soft, and talented even more so.

Dean gave your hips a firm squeeze, begging for you to move against him. As he expected, you gave in, rolling your hips onto his thighs. Something tightened in your core as Dean's body reminded you of his lack of rough jeans. The sleek fabric of his pajama pants left no space between the apex of your thighs and his growing bulge beneath it. And just from the feel of it, you knew the theory you had on his size was right.

After what felt like an eternity, Dean broke the kiss to gather his breath. The two of you panted, looking at the position you settled into during the frenzy. Part of you expected to find a shadow of regret in his eyes but found none. There was nothing but the wild glint of lust. He offered you a lazy smile as he leaned back on his elbows, gazing up at you on top of him. You braced against him with your hands to his midsection, looking down at the man with heavy lidded eyes.

He could torture you in the finest ways and he knew it.

Prick.

"Tell me what you want," commanded Dean, his tone assertive. When you didn't reply, Dean pushed his hips up into yours, grinding his length into you, giving your swollen clit the friction you had been longing for. You let out a whine as you tried to form the words, but found it impossible.

"You've gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart," another tug from Dean sent a second wave of pleasure rippling through you. A soft moan slipped past your lips, music to Dean's ears.

In a frenzy you gripped his hand and brought it to your chest, the both of you falling parallel to the bed. Dean let out a grunt of approval before giving your breast a firm squeeze. He followed your lead, roaming freely wherever you guided him - your breasts, your ass, the hem of your shirt.

He gave you a smile, his gravelly voice shuddering through you, "Strip for me."

As if on instinct your hands tugged the hem of your shirt over your head, the cold air of the room hitting your hardened nipples. Dean's eyes followed your motions before landing on your chest, admiring the sight before him. A broad hand pushed on your back to lower you to him, your chest hovering inches above his mouth. His panting breaths flew over your skin, a tempting false sense of pleasure before his mouth found a nipple, tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. You stifled back a moan against your hand, arching your back into him. Dean chuckled at your sounds, a symphony of moans that had his hips bucking into yours.

"Dean, I- aah," you gasped, his mouth still intently teasing your nipple, "I need more."

He reared his head back and gave you a devious smile, "I know you do, honey, but you gotta wait."

Dean's hands reached for the hem of your sleep shorts, tugging at the elastic until they were pulled past your ass. The cold air finally hit your soaked slit, eliciting a soft gasp from you.

"You see," said Dean, slipping a hand to cup your ass, his slender fingers nearing your underwear. "With me, sweetheart... I take my time. Wanna know why?"

Your eyes finally met his to find a serious look on his face, "It's because I want to hear every moan and whine that comes outta the pretty little mouth of yours." It felt like your insides had turned to jelly, legs shaking as his fingers moved ever so closer to your throbbing cunt. In that moment all you needed was Dean, in any way he was willing to use you.

Without warning, Dean brought a finger between your thighs, running along the wet slit waiting for him. He let out a deep sigh, a grin on his lips.

"Oh, sweetheart. What am I gonna do with you?"

[jotunheimsaga]

Sigyn Chapter 2

It was as if Elizabeth had turned into her mom, banishing her to her room, but Jess knew their mother would have never acted like this. There was no use in fighting, so Jess propped herself onto her bed with her computer, making herself look as productive as possible, so Elizabeth would be pleased when she inevitably stuck her head in.

"It's for your own good, you know."

Jess replied with a flat hum and not enough eye contact, making Elizabeth step closer and harden her voice.

"Don't you give me an attitude! It's not my fault you can't get your shit together. I'm only holding you accountable. Maybe if you finish, you can still make open mic night."

The slamming door ended the conversation, and Jess finally had space to breathe. The cursor on the screen blinked obnoxiously, waiting for her. Minute after minute passed, but she couldn't make her fingers tap the keys.

What made you choose this university? Describe your career goals. What accomplishments are you proud of, and what obstacles have you overcome?

She didn't choose this school - her dad did. She told him there wasn't anything about it that interested her, and all he said: 'well, give it a shot', as if this were a new food to try and not a decision that would impact her life forever.

Maybe ten years ago, she knew what she wanted. Back when she could answer those prompts with ease and dream about studying interesting things that would earn her a fancy degree in an adventurous career.

But you can't force dreams, and you can't fake passion. Dreams pick you without a care in the world about what everyone else thinks is 'practical'.

That was good - she should write that down.

She threw her head back into the pillows and stared at the blank ceiling. She could write everything except what she needed.

Outside, the shadows stretched across the hills as the sun tip-toed behind the heads of the evergreens. Almost an entire day had been wasted; why should she waste any more?

So she threw on warm layers and hurried out the door, ready to let nature inspire her.

Jess knew her sister and friends preferred downhill skiing, so all she had to do to avoid them was stay on the cross-country trails. Before she knew it, she was breathing frigid air in the middle of a white wilderness, completely alone.

The trip did not spark Jess' imagination like she hoped.

The further she ventured, the more she wanted to turn back. The mountain was too quiet, and the rows of trees leaning over the trail made her claustrophobic. Every few seconds, she glanced over her shoulder, her imagination convincing her a monster was lurking in the shadows.

She hadn't bothered to grab a map. She didn't need one as long as she stayed on the trail. No matter how far she went, it would loop back to the lodge...right?

Her confidence faded with the evening sun, casting the world into blue twilight. There was precious little time before the world would turn black, and she'd have to navigate purely by the light of her phone.

As she slowed around a bend, something in the trees to her left caught her eyes. Etched in the bark was a symbol - some kind of Viking rune. She traced the jagged lines and angles the knife had made who-know-how-long-ago. It had been years since she read about the runes, but she was certain she had never seen this specific symbol before.

Perhaps it was a trail marker? Why hadn't she noticed them earlier in other places?

Giving up on identifying it, she turned to the other side of the trail that curved along the edge of a steep hill that was almost a sheer drop into the forest. In the distance was the soft glow of lights from the lodge, and a cloud of mist was expelled from her lips as she sighed in relief.

Movement in the trees pulled her eyes away. The shadows across the snow flickered, and then something trotted into an open field. Jess held her breath in fear the tiniest sound might scare it away. Its long legs pierced the crust of the snow with ease, its steady gait never missing a beat as its head swiveled from side to side. Every once in a while it swept its nose across the ground while its ears flicked back and forth.

Then, there was something else, something closer at the base of the hill. It was taller and moved like a phantom floating above the ground, creeping closer tree by tree. When it leaned into the fading light, its features could not be distinguished beneath a black hood.

Something was wrong, but no matter how loud the warning bells rang in her head, Jess' feet stayed planted where they were as if frozen to the mountain.

The figure raised a long stick curved on both ends. Jess couldn't recognize it until it was drawn back, with an arrow on the string aimed at the first animal.

She remembered the carcass in the bed of the truck - evidence of a poacher.

It all clicked.

"Hey!"

The loudness of her own voice bouncing across the empty mountain startled herself. In retrospect, it wasn't the wisest decision, but she couldn't stand by and do nothing while an innocent animal was killed.

A flock of birds spooked from their perches, sending clumps of snow falling to the ground. The animal snapped its head toward Jess, who was more concerned with the other figure. It stared at her with no discernable facial features, but Jess could feel her eyes piercing through her layers, coming to a decision that she didn't want to know about.

So focused on each other, no one noticed the first creature launching itself through the air. A quiet forest erupted into the chaos filled with snarls and snapping wood. The tall figure stumbled back into the bracken to escape an onslaught of fangs. Jess only caught glimpses of movement through the sticks.

With a screechy whine, all went quiet. The animal darted into the open with blood dripping from its shoulder. It seemed confused as it put its nose to the ground and paced back and forth.

The figure had vanished.

Gripping her ski poles tightly in her hands, Jess moved her skis through the snow back towards the lodge with renewed urgency.

[soulmate-game]

Useful Part 2

fluff with a little hurt and comfort. If you want answers as to the lack of angst, look through my recent posts for an explanation. 

—* — * — * —* —* 

“Wait, you have a WHAT?” were the first words that the rest of the Gotham-based vigilantes heard when they finally were able to track down where Damian had gone. Dick looked over at Bruce, who was noticeably tense. No surprise there, the man had just found out that he had a second biological child. One who was apparently a superhero already, without his intervention, and also apparently had a tragic background in the League of fucking Assassin Assholes. Not to mention that Damian’s track record with meeting siblings wasn’t great, even if this one wasn’t actually new to him. Nobody had any real fear of Damian relapsing on his no-kill rule, they knew he had matured far too much to be at risk of killing for something as immature as sibling rivalry anymore. 

But there was still fear. Because this new Wayne was an Unknown Factor, and as a rule the Bats hated Unknown Factors. And they had no idea what the relationship between the two had been before they had been separated, or what it would become now. 

“That wasn’t Damian’s voice,” Dick helpfully pointed out the obvious. Bruce only frowned, doing his best (and failing) to hide his anxiety about what they would find. Silently, the group inched forward to the edge of the abandoned building they were on top of so that they could look over at what was happening. What they saw was a girl, presumably the same one who had been in a ladybug onesie and had fearlessly begun to ask them to leave Paris— until she had laid proper eyes on Robin and fled, that was. That girl was sitting down next to an unmasked Damian, who had his arm around her shoulders and let her lean into his side. He even smirked cheerfully at her question before continuing to speak to her. 

“A dragon-bat. I knew you’d love hearing about him, I’ll introduce you when you come visit the Batcave. His name is Goliath,” Damian admitted smugly. Despite the familiar attitude and pride behind his words though, his spying family couldn’t help but notice that he kept periodically rubbing the girl’s (they really needed to find out her name) shoulder in reassurance. None of them missed the tear tracks on both of their faces, or how red the girl’s eyes were. Clearly they had missed something big. 

But nobody wanted to try to figure that out yet. This scene was too precious, too breathtaking for them to interrupt just yet. They had never seen Damian this vulnerable around someone outside of their little circle before, someone from the Time Before Bruce, no less. Most of the time, only Nightwing was able to see this side to Damian. And usually the roles were reversed, with Damian being the one consoled. They had never seen him in the position of the comforter before. The pillar of support. 

It really cemented just how far he had come. 

So they watched silently as the girl flinched, pulling away a bit and hunching in on herself. The laugh she let out was small and overflowing with self-degradation. 

“You make it sound as if the rest of your family actually wants me to visit,” she replied sourly. Damian gently cuffed her over the head, frowning. 

“Two things,” he held up two fingers from his free hand. “One: They will. They accepted me, and I was— well, you remember how I used to be. Once they actually meet you, and process the fact that there’s another Wayne now, they will bombard you with more welcoming than you will know what to do with. Two: It’s Our family, Marinette. Not mine, ours.”

Well, at least they had a name now. But it seems like they had bigger issues now, like Marinette’s clearly damaged sense of self. Jason and Tim traded knowing glances; it wasn’t hard for them to guess where, or how, she might have been damaged enough to think so lowly of herself. 

They watched as Marinette shook her head. 

“I don’t know. It’s one thing to try to… to get to know you again. We used to be close before… everything,” she haltingly argued, voice small and frail and uncertain. But she never once looked away from Damian’s eyes, trying to convey as best as she could what she was feeling. “But they’re different. They don’t have any reason to trust or like me, Dami. And I’m bad at, well everything, but especially,” she waved her hands frantically as if indicating the whole situation they were in. “I mean, listen to me! I can barely articulate right now, and I’m talking to someone I’ve known my whole life! I’m a mess. Nobody wants a mess.” 

It was Damian’s turn to snort, and he pulled her right back into his side. “Please. If anything, that’s exactly the type of child Father goes looking for. We’re all a mess. Especially Father, trust me.” 

“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” she accused suspiciously, but sank into his sideways embrace anyway. Damian chuckled. 

“No, I’m being honest. He’s terrible at emotions, not that I really have much room to talk. We all are pretty bad with them. But he’s the most obvious when it comes to that issue,” Damian smirked over at his sister conspiratorially. “For example. He still tries to tell people that he works alone, and pushes people away because he has this intense desire to protect, but doesn’t know how to say “I don’t want you to get hurt, stop worrying me,” so instead he says “Go away, I don’t need you,” only for us to see through that nonsense and remind him that the amount of people in his team is in the double digits already. He doesn’t want to admit he cares about us and is vulnerable—”

“Sounds familiar,” Marinette teased with a watery grin, startling a short laugh from her twin. He nudged her a little roughly (but not to roughly) and playfully glared at her. Marinette just giggled.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied with a grin before waving his free hand in dismissal. “Anyway. Another example. He has no idea how to tell a stranger, “hey, I’m your father and I will not reject you. In fact, I’m completely willing to adopt you right this moment and whisk you away to Gotham and relative safety and hire an entire team of therapists to help you and buy you half the world if you asked for it,” so instead he and the rest of our emotionally constipated family just lurks on the edge of a building in broad daylight eavesdropping on us and expects us not to notice.” 

“Wait what,” Marinette’s gaze instantly whipped up towards the sky, taking only half a second to locate the aforementioned eavesdroppers. Everyone except Bruce at least had the courtesy to duck down and pretend not to be there when they noticed she had seen them, leaving Batman standing seemingly alone on the concrete roof. Marinette blinked once. Twice. Then turned to Damian. “I’m gonna blame the fact that I didn’t notice them on emotional turmoil, because there is no way I’ve gotten THAT rusty.” 

Damian smiled, but didn’t laugh. He knew that was a deflection to try and distract from Marinette’s quickly resurging self-consciousness. Her hands were already trembling again, and the fear from only minutes ago had resurfaced. The insecurity. He could practically see the words “I’m not good enough,” written in her irises. 

“You’ll be fine,” he whispered, standing up and pulling her with him. “If anyone has to worry here, it’s me.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Marinette whisper-hissed right back, eyes wide in disbelief and confusion. “You’re— You! Mister Perfect!” 

Damian rolled his eyes, and his self-deprecating smirk matched the laugh Marinette had given just a few minutes earlier. “For the League, maybe,” he shrugged. “Never the Wayne family. Which is why I know you’ll be fine. If they put up with everything I’ve done and still call me one of them, they’ll accept you with barely a second thought.” 

Marinette’s next argument was cut off by the sound of a dozen soft footfalls stirring up dirt not far ahead of them. The BatClan had landed from the rooftop. 

Marinette gulped. 

But if there was one thing— one thing she still remembered from her days as Marie Al-Ghul, it was how to fake pride and confidence. She straightened her shoulders automatically, lifted her chin, and pulled away from Damian’s supporting arm around her shoulder. Damian let her. 

A little bit of old resentment flared up in him as he saw Batman walk up close enough to comfortably talk with them. Resentment that he no longer held onto, but that had haunted him nearly every night of the first two years he spent with his dad. The realization that maybe his twin was the one that was meant to be a Wayne. Marie had the blue eyes, the compassion, the more specifically detective-oriented mind. The calm head. Sometimes. Marie was exactly who he imagined when he thought of a naturally born member of the BatClan. Stubborn, clever, morally just. She had risked immediate death just because she refused to fight him, for crying out loud. Because she didn’t want to hurt the boy who used to be her best friend. The only ally she had ever had, growing up. 

Meanwhile, he still had issues reigning in his anger sometimes. He had too much blood on his hands, he was more of a battlefield tactician than a long-term strategist. Still stubborn, but also completely unaware of the pain he brought others with his words or actions a lot of the time. He used to be such a rage fueled little demon, and thinking about how his sister fit the classic Wayne outline more thoroughly than he did had made him destroy more than a few practice dummies in frustration. 

But now, looking at Marinette trying so hard to appear strong and proud when he knew she was still so shattered inside, relief overpowered the old and dull resentment. This was what she needed, he could sense that easily. She, just like him all those years ago, needed Bruce and the others to start to heal her and reforge what the League had badly molded. 

“... Marinette, I suppose?” Damian nearly facepalmed at his father’s awkward attempt at a conversation starter. Marinette herself was clearly too keyed up and overthinking things to even register any amusement at the lame attempt, merely nodding with an overly serious expression on her face. 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Monsieur Wayne. Or that’s my name nowadays, that is,” She stumbled a little in her response before clenching her fists and forcing herself to continue as calmly as she could muster up. “My birth name was Marie Al-Ghul.” 

Bruce’s eyebrows visibly furrowed underneath his cowl. “Was?” 

“I…” Marinette finally looked away, shame creeping back onto her face. “I was explicitly told that I was stripped of the Al-Ghul name and would be killed if I ever dared lay claim to it again. So I not-so-legally changed it. And I was later adopted.” 

Several sharp gasps or the hiss of breath through teeth bit through the quiet breeze. Nobody was necessarily surprised, Marinette could see it when she looked through her eyelashes and examined the winces and sympathy on the faces of the vigilantes before her. Batman’s shoulders were stiff, as if someone had paralyzed only his shoulder blades. 

“And the people who adopted you?” Batman pursued. Marinette couldn’t read his tone very well, but it sounded vaguely angry so she quickly raised her hands in a placating gesture and her eyes widened significantly. 

“They’ve been amazing! They don’t know anything about my past, or who raised me, but they are endlessly patient with me. I mean, honestly! Sabine caught me when I was trying to steal one of her gold bracelets in Hong Kong— and I know I’ve never been as good of a combatant as Dami, but I’ve always been better at sleight of hand and stealth so honestly that’s impressive— and she saw my dirty eight-year-old face and for some reason decided, ‘yeah I want this one as my daughter’ and roped Tom right into it and next thing I know they somehow tailed me to my hideout? I still don’t know how the hell they managed that, but Tom had a huge plate of steaming buns and I was so hungry and suddenly it’s two years later and I’m adopted and we’re on a plane to Paris—” Marinette threw up her hands. “I still don’t fully grasp what happened sometimes.” 

She belatedly seemed to realize that she had just gone on an entire breathless rant at the speed of sound, and slapped her hands over her mouth before lunging into a deep bow. “I apologize! I spoke horridly out of turn!” 

To her surprise though, she was met with a soft laugh instead of a scolding. She jerked in surprise, whipping her head up only to see Batman holding a hand over his chin to hide his large grin. It only took another second for the boys behind him to laugh a lot LESS softly. Nightwing strolled over casually and swung an arm around both her and Damian’s shoulders, playfully nudging her brother with his knee. 

“I think she fits right in, don’t you little D?” 

“Of course,” Damian scoffed, though his eyes were playful. “She is a Wayne by blood. She ‘fits in’ more than you strays.” 

“Dami!” Marinette whipped back to him and puffed out her cheeks. “That was uncalled for!” she barked. Damian held his hands up in surrender. 

“Relax,” he said as soothingly as he could manage. “They know I’m joking,” he dropped his hands and a knowing smirk took over his face. “And besides, now you’re relaxed so my plan worked,” Marinette could only blink at that. She… did feel more relaxed, actually. “Also. I told you you’d be accepted easily. They already consider you one of us.” 

“Wha— there’s no way—” she frantically looked at each of the older men around her, but each of them just shot her a smile or grin and a short nod. Her shoulders and jaw both fell, and it broke a little of everyone’s heart. 

Marinette looked so utterly shocked, bewildered to be accepted as if it was still something profoundly foreign to her. And there was that disbelief in her eyes, that distrust that screamed that she expected some sort of lie here. That told that she thought this would all crumble away at any second. If anyone had any reservations about bringing her into their inner circles, it vanished right that moment. She needed support, or she’d crumble away and they all knew it. 

“How about we start by talking about the situation with Hawkmoth?” Red Robin spoke up, walking forward to stand beside Batman. “I assume that’s a little more in your element?” 

Damian silently vowed to thank Tim later for that. In a silent, completely anonymous way of course. Couldn’t have Tim thinking they were friends or something now, could he? Marinette instantly straightened up and nodded, her confidence returning with a little more sincerity this time. 

“Yeah. Yeah, let me transform again. It’ll be easier to explain.” 

—*—*—*—*—*

It was three weeks later, on Marinette’s third now-weekly visit to the Batcave, when the question finally came up. Jason had asked to spar with Marinette for the first time, having seen her in action as Ladybug and wanting to test the girl when she didn’t have superpowers to rely on. Damian hadn’t been down in the cave to warn him, and the result was Jason’s gut sinking as Marinette scrambled as far away from him as she could, eyes wide and chest heaving in the beginnings of a panic attack. 

“Shit,” Jason muttered before he quickly knelt down and did his best to talk her down, to calm her until her breathing slowed and her pupils were back to normal. It wasn’t long afterwards that Marinette started hugging herself, refusing to look at him. But he wasn’t going to just back down, he wanted to solve this issue. If even the mere suggestion of a spar was enough to set her off, he needed to figure out why and fix it. 

So he carefully lowered himself so he was sitting only a foot away from her, resting his arms across his knees casually. 

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Didn’t think it would be a sore subject. That’s on me.” 

Marinette just shrugged, but didn’t answer him. She just buried her face in her arms and took a shaky breath. 

Jason let the silence linger for a while before trying again. “Does this have to do with certain Asshole Assassins?” 

That startled a slightly hysterical bark of laughter from her, and she had to wipe away a few tears when she raised her head and finally turned it in his direction slightly. Not enough for her to be looking at him,  but just a subtle turn to show that she was listening and speaking to him. “Yeah.” 

“You know, you never told us why you got disowned,” Jason tried to make his words as casual as possible, but wasn’t surprised when Marinette still stiffened and took a sharp breath. He didn’t push. The stage was set, and he’d wait until either she took the opportunity to open up or told him to leave well enough alone. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, and her foot tapped on the ground a bit. Clear signs of her anxiety around the subject, and Jason’s hopes vanished a little. He would probably have to wait longer for her to be ready to share.

But, to his pleasant surprise, he was wrong. She took another few minutes to gather her thoughts, but she did eventually open up to him. 

“I refused to fight Damian,” she admitted. “It was… We were seven. It wasn’t supposed to be a fight to the death, but it was a very important spar. We were using live weaponry, and we were told to fight until we couldn’t anymore. Whoever fell first would be relegated as a mere soldier, and have to fight for status like any other assassin in the League. The winner would officially be named as G— as Ra’s Heir. I didn’t want to fight, because I knew Damian would win but I also knew that it wouldn’t be as easy as Ra’s probably expected if I gave it my all like he wanted. I knew both Damian and I would be heavily injured if I did as he asked, and it wouldn’t be worth it. If I misjudged anything, any single hit, I could have accidentally injured Damian permanently and ruined his worth in Ra’s eyes, and that wasn’t an option. I didn’t care that throwing the fight was as good as giving up my life, because at least I could be sure that Damian kept his. I could make sure that he was treated well, or as well as anyone could hope for in the League anyway. I could, with only a few words, make sure he became indispensable. Ra’s and Talia never liked me as much as Damian anyway, I figured… I figured it was nobody’s loss,” She swallowed heavily, clenching her eyes shut. “I was always just the spare. The extra. Damian was their crown prince, the one with actual value. Even to me. I saw him, and I saw everything I wanted to be. I… I tossed down my weapons and let him stab me, because I figured I owed it to him for being such a failure in comparison to him. That I owed it to him to do everything I could to make things easier for him, since I was just an unnecessary obstacle—” strong arms wrapped around her, and she turned to sob into Jason’s chest as he just silently held her. 

“Idiot,” Damian whispered, making Marinette jump. Her twin sat only a few feet away, though only Jason would have known when exactly he had gotten there with them. He shook his head at her. “I never would have gotten as far as I did without you,” he whispered, looking up at the cave ceiling. “You were the only real rival I had. When you left, everything was either too easy or nearly impossible, nothing was the same as trying my best against someone who was just as good as me. And when I got here and met the others, I didn’t think any of them were worthy of taking your position, you know,” he scoffed a bit as he got lost in his memories. “That’s why I hated Tim for so long, I think. He reminded me of you so much that I wanted nothing more than to punch him for daring to replace you—”

“Heh, the Replacement twice over, huh?” Jason joked. Damian chuckled with a small eye roll. 

“Plus, he just has a really punchable face,” Damian added, trying to distract from the emotion behind everything he had just admitted. “Part of me thought you were dead. The other part refused to believe that. And seeing Tim and how some of his mannerisms were the same as yours,” Damian shrugged a little. “It stung. Especially that second year, when I started to regret that you never had the chance to come here and join them with me. Meet them with me.” 

Marinette sniffled. “... Who are you and what have you done with Dami? He’s never this sappy.” 

Damian flicked a pebble at her head with a good natured glare, successfully diffusing the serious air a little. Marinette wouldn’t ever be normal, and it would take a while before she was no longer fragile, but she could get there. Especially now that her bridges with her brother had been mended, and and a whole new family had cropped up to help support her. 

She was glad Damian had convinced her to try, again.  

[beyondspaceandstars]

While You Sleep

Chapter 18

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: angst Summary: Soulmate!AU - Throughout life, you’re given glimpses of your soulmate through dreams. As you sleep, memories flash in your mind showing you the life your soulmate has lived. Everyone around you raves about how their soulmate reads great books or volunteers in their spare time. But you can’t relate as your dreams end up being more like nightmares. Through initial images of death and violence, you come to learn your soulmate is the Winter Soldier.

A/N: so sorry I’ve been slow with updating Tumblr - my blog was shadowbanned (basically Tumblr hid my blog in searches, notifications, tags, etc.) and it just got fixed so I’m working to update here!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

“You’re back,” Dr. G smiled as you plopped down in the seat across from her. 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead forced a tight smile. “I’m back,” you confirmed with a dramatic nod for emphasis. You didn’t know why you were feeling so hostile. You had shown up here willingly this time. 

Bucky didn’t even know you were seeing your therapist again. But it wasn’t exactly like he was around to find out. He had left for his mission yesterday in the very early morning and you were now on constant edge. You didn’t know what he would encounter. You knew none of it was at your clearance level seeing as you had no government clearance level to begin with but still… You didn’t like that anything that went wrong would come back to you in the depths of your sleep. Even if Bucky had shared everything step-by-step, any mishap was another blow. Even if everything went right, you feared you were bound to see something. 

“Would you like to share anything?” Your therapist asked, disrupting your spiraling thoughts. It was like she knew and, well, maybe she did. You really did kind of suck at hiding your emotions. You could practically feel your face darkening with worry. 

“Bucky and I learned something about us recently,” you said a bit nervously but Dr. G nodded in encouragement. You tried to steady your breathing and continued, “Our soulmate bond has been disrupted. It happened when he was part of Hydra — I mean, not like part of. That makes it sound like he joined willingly which he absolutely did not—,”

Your therapist said your name sharply, cutting off your words. “I know what you meant,” she said.

You nodded briefly, recomposing yourself, and began again, “While under Hydra, he was brainwashed and in that process, they thought they had rid him of his soulmate. But, turns out, all they were doing was tampering with the transmission lines. This means any sort of trauma or… or really emotional occurrences in Bucky’s life gets passed along to me, intercepting any, well, normal dreams. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Nothing?”

You glanced away. “Well, I’ve asked him to retire to maybe… minimize the damage.”

Dr. G nodded as she scribbled something on her notepad. She let out an interesting hum. “How did Bucky respond to that?”

You fought back the urge to roll your eyes. You weren’t really upset with him, more angered by the situation. “It took him a second to come around to the idea and, sure, eventually he did but then he was given another mission. A mission he couldn’t turn down.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

Another feeling of annoyance flashed across you at the cliche therapist speak but you could also recognize the question for its worth. Someone was actually asking you how you felt about the new, and last, mission. Lord knows Bucky hadn’t.

You bit your lip, feeling tears already threatening to run down your cheeks. “It made me feel bad, to put it simply. I just felt horrible and scared. I know that with time it’ll go away and maybe we’ll find some peace but I’m just really hurt it has to be this way.”

More notes were scribbled. “How did Bucky react to hearing that?” Dr. G asked without looking up. You shifted awkwardly in your seat, fiddling with your fingers out of habit. Your therapist glanced up once her writing has finished. Her brows raised as you struggled to find an answer.

“He doesn’t really know.”

Your therapist placed her pen on her notepad and leaned forward in her chair, eyeing you a bit upsettingly. “Do you remember what I told you during your last session?”

Talking. Talking, talking, talking. Just let it out. How could you forget? That’s exactly what you had done and while it made some kind of progress, you were still stuck at this godforsaken dead end for the time being. 

You picked at the chair cushion. “He didn’t ask,” you sighed. “Besides, what good was it going to do? I couldn’t have stopped the mission.”

Dr. G shrugged. “No, I doubt you could’ve, but that’s not the point. The point is you’re hurting and your soulmate needs to know this, especially when it involves him. You can’t beat around the bush or try to sidestep this kind of stuff. Be gentle, yes, but little progress can be made if everything is bottled in.”

“Well, doc, I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m sure he knows very well how I feel about all of this,” you snapped back. “Think I made myself super clear during our first conversation about retirement.”

“Fine,” she shrugged. “Assume he did. Assume Bucky knew everything that was going through your mind. Did it open any conversation?”

Your shoulders slumped. You looked away. 

Dr. G continued, “My point exactly. Of course, you don’t want to hurt him but you can’t hurt yourself in the process. How many people actually knew about the nightmares to begin with?”

“None,” you mumbled. And it was, sadly, the truth. Your coworker was the first to know. You hadn’t even had the guts to tell your parents. 

“I’m sure I make it sound easier than it really is but there are some benefits to it over time,” your therapist said after a moment. 

You let out a dramatic sigh. “You’re kind of annoying, you know that?”

Your therapist laughed. “You’ve been wanting to bite back for a while, haven’t you?” You didn’t answer. She shrugged. “Already testing out those communication skills I see.”

You let yourself roll your eyes this time.

***

It was nearing midnight when your cell phone rang. You jumped, suddenly disturbed by the ringtone as you laid on your couch watching some sitcom reruns. You frowned in confusion as you stretched to reach your phone on the coffee table. You weren’t expecting any calls.

You turned the screen around and were greeted by one name: Bucky. You just about yelped when it registered he was calling you -- and from his mission, amazingly. You sat up quickly and answered.

“Hi, Buck,” you greeted, hopefully sounding a bit more cheerful than you felt. Your therapy session from the morning still had you a bit shaken. 

“Hey, doll,” Bucky responded, his voice a bit hoarse. He sounded exhausted and...defeated. 

You sink into the couch. “Is everything going okay?” You guessed it wasn’t too weird he was reaching out while away but something was off in his voice. You thought you had already mentally prepared for the worst.

“For the most part,” he mumbled. “I have to tell you, sweetheart, it wasn’t smooth sailing. We… We all had to do some things we aren’t proud of.”

You shut your eyes, trying to reel in your panicked brain before you said something you’d regret. This couldn’t all fall on Bucky, it wasn’t fair. He had a job, one final job, and you were going to have to accept that. 

Regaining your voice, you said, “What… What things, Bucky?”

He fell silent on the other end. All you could hear was some soft breathing and others talking in the background. The rest of the team you could guess. You said his name into the receiver again.

“Just know I didn’t like what I had to do and I can’t wait to put this life behind me.”

If that was all you were getting from him, you’d have to accept it. “Okay,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “I-I understand.” You didn’t really but you knew after tonight you definitely would.

Bucky took another pause. “You deserve so much better than this.”

“Bucky-,”

“You really do, sweetheart.”

“Bucky, please, listen,” you sighed. “While this isn’t ideal and I was very upset you just jumped on this assignment without speaking to me, I know it won’t be like this forever, right? 

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about the assignment before leaving,” Bucky responded. “I-I knew I couldn’t do anything about it but that’s still not fair to you. You deserve to be heard.”

“It’s okay, honey,” you said, fighting back some tears getting ready to start again. “You’re almost done, you’re almost back home.”

Bucky hummed. “I am,” he confirmed. “And when I get back I’m going to make up for all of this, I promise.”

You let out a weak laugh through the tears. “You can make it up to me by getting home safely.”

Bucky was about to say something else but was then cut off by someone yelling at him in the background. He gave a curt response before turning his attention back to you. “Sorry, doll, but I have to go. We have some debriefing to do.”

“Of course,” you said, waving a hand in the air like he could see you. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

“See you soon, sweetheart,” he said. “Love you.”

The line cut before you had the chance to say the words back. You held your phone out in front of you, staring at your lit homescreen, shocked and overwhelmed. He loved you. And he had said it.

***

You were dreading getting ready to go to sleep but, at the same time, your body was practically begging for it. You were finally getting back into the swing of working and now with therapy sessions on top, you couldn’t believe how exhausting life was. As if you had forgotten at some point. 

But with that craved moment of relaxation, an unnerving threat lurked. 

You practically moved with caution when it came to your nighttime routine now. You washed your face carefully and precisely. You scrubbed every tooth again and again for a good minute. Even combing out your hair seemed to be tedious. 

It was all sad attempts at procrastination and you knew it but what could you do? It wasn’t like you were jumping into bed happily no matter how much your body screamed. 

When there was no more to do in your routine, you had to accept it. You had to finally lay down in your bed, let your head hit the pillow, curl up under the duvet, and welcome whatever kind of sleep was going to greet you. 

Almost immediately, you were hit with everything.

As always, you’re seeing it in glimpses from Bucky’s eyes, from his mind. In this instance, he appears to be located in some kind of warehouse. It almost reminded you of where you had been taken to but abandoned.

At first, Bucky seems pretty calm and collected. He’s assessing his surroundings and mapping out a plan. He says something to the person next to them. You can’t see them and possibly you don’t want to. 

They agree with whatever Bucky has suggested but before their plan can commence, they’re both attacked. Guns blazing, doors busting, a whole goddamn ambush. You’re panicking, you feel Bucky panicking. But it doesn’t last long for him. No, within seconds he’s in destruction mode, stomping towards the pop-up army - you don’t even know what they’re part of - dodging bullets and taking them down one by one. 

Some others are helping out it seems but you’re only allowed to be consumed with Bucky’s take on the situation. Despite how much you don’t want to be, especially when he… You see the glint of his metal arm rush past. They’re dying. Being killed. These soldiers or whatever are dropping left and right around him. You feel Bucky’s pulsing anger. He has no plans of slowing down. You feel the tension in his arm as he strangles another and another and another. At one point, he even throws some across the room.

They’re finished. No more men pour in. The rest of the team has stopped. They’re all looking at Bucky, wide-eyed and nervous. You feel his fury turn to shame. You didn’t know the mission’s expectations but you could guess they didn’t exactly involve this much death. No one says anything as they move on. 

The images fade but the feelings don’t. You suddenly want to cry in your sleep feeling Bucky’s distraught and embarrassment. 

Unable to deal with it anymore, you force yourself awake, everything vanishing as your eyes open. You look around your dark room. The clock beside your bed reads just past three a.m. 

You curl back into your blanket and face the wall. You stare at it for the rest of the night, heart pounding and hands shaking.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Fated Epilogue

Epilogue

Ares x reader

Word Count: 2041

Summary: Time skip to Zag running around trying to fix everything; then he gets a weird message from Ares.

The affair known to most of the Underworld’s population as The Confusion of Zagreus started as most things in his life did, on a run through the place as he tested the defenses against an escaping entity for what felt like the thousandth time. He’d had Ares’ vial with him, so naturally he’d gotten a fair few of the war god’s boons. Nothing too unusual, right? That’s what he thought right up until Ares said the most curious thing.

“When next you see Thanatos, tell him that his sister wants him to visit more.”

Sister? Zagreus wondered. Than doesn’t speak to his . . . Wait, Nemesis . . . But why would Lord Ares have messages from her?

When he mentioned it to his lover, Thanatos just chuckled. “I suppose it has been a while since I last saw her,” was all he had to say on the matter.

And that set the trend that continued for a while. He’d get a message from Ares to Than, pass it on, and get some cryptic non-answer in return. It was absolutely maddening. Even when he asked others, all they had to say was that it wasn’t any of his business, which was fair, but that didn’t aid his curiosity.

Finally, all that started changing when he managed to squeeze a drop of information out of Than when he asked, “So why does Ares see your sister more than you?” while they were dining together one evening.

And without really thinking, Death Incarnate reflexively replied, “Because she lives with him in Thrace instead of here.” Of course, immediately after that, Thanatos realized what he’d just admitted and promptly clammed up, but it was something at least.

Then Demeter let slip something else in one of her messages after he’d accepted several of Ares’ boons yet again. “Ares is aiding you when you get injured, is he? I’d be surprised if Nemesis didn’t have a hand in that sort of attack.”

And that set him thinking. Revenge was her area of expertise, after all. And many of Ares’ such boons were noticeably more powerful in dealing direct damage instead of causing various other effects. Could Than’s sister have been indirectly aiding him through Ares all this time?

Then came another piece of knowledge, this one from his mother upon inquiring why Thanatos and Lord Ares seemed to be so close. 

“Well War and Death were always bound to meet frequently just from their natures, I suppose, but it could also have been because of that mess where he saved poor Thanatos from being chained in a box. I’d wager that was a big help to making their friendship grow.” Before he could ask just what that was about, she continued, “Though it could have also started back when Lord Ares almost passed away, too. I remember Thanatos being quite concerned for both him and Nemesis during all that.”

“What do you mean Lord Ares almost died? He’s an Olympian!”

“He is, but the day Hermes found him was a day that stoked fear in the heart of every Olympian,” Persephone said gravely. “They all worried about Ares’ fate despite how they regularly ridicule the man, because if he could die that meant any of them could.”

Zagreus suddenly found his mouth extremely dry and couldn’t form a response.

“Yes, that was definitely the start of their friendship now that I think on it. It was very kind of Thanatos to linger without threatening the poor dears. From what I heard, he was very calm during the whole affair even in the face of such shocking news.”

“Yes, I suppose learning even the great Olympians might die would be quite dramatic,” he murmured, shoulders sagging.

“No, that’s not--ah! You don’t know, do you?”

He perked back up. “Know what, Mother?” he prompted innocently.

She smiled kindly as she patted his forearm. “It’s not my place to tell you if they haven’t already; I’d forgotten how much they value their privacy when they can get it.”

Who is ‘they’? Zagreus wanted to scream while yanking his hair out. Thanatos and his sister? Her and Ares? Thanatos and Ares?? But he didn’t. Instead, he just smiled stiffly and nodded.

It wasn’t until he managed to broker a peace between the Chthonic gods and the Olympians that he finally got answers.

~

There was a party you were supposed to be preparing for, but you were having a hard time working up the gumption to move from your current position. Because of said celebration, you and your husband--how you’d never tire of calling him that--had arranged your schedules so that they aligned, which of course was the reason you found yourself lying in bed perpendicular to the man, using one arm as a pillow under your head on his chest while the other hand played with his hair.

His gleaming red eyes flicked over to the open, brightly illuminated window where sheer white curtains swayed softly in the breeze. “We really should be dressing; I have a feeling your brother-in-law wants to meet us sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, but it’s so rare that we get time like this to ourselves.”

His hand found the one you’d been carding through his hair and brought it to his lips to kiss. “You and I have an eternity full of moments like this ahead of us; we can spare an evening for the boy.”

You huffed dramatically. “Let it never be said that you’re not a man of your word.” A sigh left your lips, but still you pried yourself out of bed without further complaint. “Are we doing full regalia or casual?” When there was no answer, you glanced back to see that he was transfixed by the sight of your naked form heading towards the shared closet. “Ares!” you laughed, snapping his attention back to reality.

“Darling, I take it all back; you must come back to bed at once. There’s a rather pressing matter that needs your attention at once.”

Now, you rolled your eyes. “Well that pressing matter can wait until we return. Are we doing armor or not?”

From there, there were a lot of kisses, gropes, and laughter between that moment and being fully clothed--in light leather greaves and cloth chitons rather than the usual full armor, after all, Ares so hated to be unprotected or unarmed--but neither of you were really complaining.

“Boys!” Ares called down the hallway with you tucked under his arm.

Two heads of wild silver hair just like their father’s appeared from the same doorway. “Yes, Father?” they chorused.

“We’re leaving. I trust you can manage things until our return?”

“Of course, Father.” And then they were gone from sight, their snickering still echoing in their absence.

Ares chuckled as he shook his head. “Little terrors, the both of them.”

Though they weren’t yours, you’d grown to love both of the twins the moment you met them. With Aphrodite being so absent in their lives, you’d taken up the role of ‘mother figure’ quickly, and the two were practically your own by now. “Well, to be fair, one of them is Panic.” 

~

You were unsurprised at the Olympian turnout at the party; most arrived near the time when you did, but none stayed particularly long. As fond as they were of Zagreus in theory, their detest of the Underworld would always be greater. Only Ares and Demeter attended from the mountain and stayed past the pleasantries and feast. Otherwise, it was entirely the subjects of the House of Hades that were present. Fortunately, they seemed to be enjoying themselves nonetheless judging from the way Meg and Dusa had quickly roped you and Ares into conversation.

Zagreus hadn’t seemed to notice your arrival yet--too wrapped up in getting to know his mother and grandmother, you assumed--but you caught sight of Hades glaring at Ares every now and then. Every time you caught him, the harsh threat he’d delivered to Ares rang through your ears once more. 

“Set foot outside this house, boy, and you shall find yourself in a fate worse than death.” Neither of you were surprised by the warning. He was, after all, still angry about the whole ‘bursting into the Underworld without permission to save Thanatos’ fiasco.

Eventually, you and Ares found yourselves alone for a moment once Achilles and Patroclus excused themselves. You tugged the glass from his fingers to steal a sip of his ambrosia, something that’d been quite hard to find the last time you’d visited. You didn’t want a full glass, and Ares never complained about sharing.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, clearly worried about you partaking in a drink you’d never really managed to develop a taste for. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly. The drinking coupled with the knowledge of how much you hated being dragged to these things had likely set him on edge.

“I’m fine,” you assured him with a genuine smile. “These are my family, remember? Much nicer to be around than yours.”

“That’s quite true,” he murmured. No doubt, he was remembering when he and Aphrodite had been paraded around and humiliated as the entertainment at one of his family’s gatherings. His gaze flickered up as he noticed something before you did: Zagreus approaching at last. “And there’s the man of the hour!” he greeted warmly. It was hard to mistake the boy for any other given his attire was his family’s colors and the way he absolutely looked like a mix of his parents.

“Lord Ares!” Zag’s face was alight with happiness. “I’m glad you were able to make it; it’s an honor to meet you properly.” His eyes shifted to you. “You must be Than’s lovely sister I’ve heard very little about.”

You laughed lightly. You like this kid already. “I suppose that’s me, yes.”

“Frankly, I’m amazed I haven’t seen you around the House before now,” he probed curiously.

You decided to indulge him; it was a celebration in his honor after all. “I pop by to visit Mother and Hypnos from time to time, but I see Than enough that lingering isn’t worth it. I’ve gathered that you’re usually gone from the House as much as he is.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” he chuckled. “Makes sense you wouldn’t just lurk around when you put it like that.”

“Have to budget that precious time off somehow.””

“Plus, it’s sort of my fault that she resides in Thrace since I stole her all those years ago,” Ares teased.

“Stole her, sir?” Oh, how the poor boy looked so confused at those words. You were willing to bet his mind was just running back over Persephone’s situation and comparing it to yours.

Your brows furrowed. “Zag, has no one told you about Ares and I?”

“No!” his voice was laughing but had a manic edge to it. “Everyone keeps hinting at there being something going on with you two, but no one wants to clue me in! I’ve tried to respect your privacy by not asking directly, but it’s driving me crazy!”

“Oh, for Father’s sake.” Ares rolled his eyes. “I’m going to have a word with your brother about this,” he announced as he started pulling away from you.

“Wait! You’re not mad at Than are you?” Zagreus fretted. “Because I’d hate to cause strife between you because of my own curiosity, and--”

“Relax, Zag,” you soothed.

“Thanatos is the only being I would ever call my friend outside of her,” he gestured toward you. “I thought it went without saying that he didn’t have to keep secrets from you for my benefit, but apparently that isn’t the case. I’m simply going to tell him that. I’ll be right back, my darling.” With a kiss to your temple, he stalked over to where Than was loitering with his sleeping brother at the edge of the room.

When you looked back at Zagreus, he was staring at you absolutely slack-jawed, probably at Ares’ display of affection. “Blood and darkness, my Lady,” he managed to wheeze, “what is going on?”

You snorted a little, amused slightly by his turmoil. “Zagreus, Ares is my Fated. He’s my husband.”

His eyes went a little crossed as he realized it was just that simple. “Oh, is that all?!”

[buryyourfavouritestrope]

Feel Things - Claude Faustus

Author Note: I haven't reread through this, so expect errors, I've just had the same several paragraphs in my drafts for months and really needed to finish this, because damn the concept was too good for me. Also I'm so glad someone made this gif because it fits super good for a specific moment in the fic below. Fruniscor

It was silly. It really was but she’d let a voice crow in their ear, and it had planted a charming seed of doubt. They’d passed each other by chance in a city of hundreds; a gentle yet firm grip had pulled her from the street matched with provocative eyes. The world stopped breathing in time with the Trancy Maid; all noise fell silent until the butler chuckled. As soon as Sebastian whispered his questions a shadow latched onto her young heart. He’d released the maid shortly after with a promise to see her again. A promise she had no intention of allowing him to keep.

This came as no surprise to either party, that along with the stagnant smell of the city street came the lingering stench of the Phantomhive butler. A foul smell that had been commented on a dozen times and would continue to be at the top of conversation. Claude had remained silent since she had returned home. His face contorted in displeasure – or could she see a hint of disgust hidden behind his liquid gold eyes.

“He should never have touched you, and for that I must apologise” Claude sighed. The demon was not the one to say sorry, but then he wasn’t one to let this happen in the first place. He could feel his irritation itching beneath his skin as he continued to inhale the fetor of the other demon. “However, before we go about any other business, you need to wash. I can’t stand that malodour.”

Claude’s fingers wrapped around her wrist felt drastically different to how Sebastian’s had felt earlier. His fingers held tight, almost painfully, as though he was worried, she would slip from his grasp and disappear. The Trancy Butler was all too aware of her pain threshold, and he always balanced on the precipitous edge. He wanted to let them know that he was still a demon. That he could still break them into unmendable pieces. Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t mean any harm by it; but she had this way of looking at him like he was almost human.

It hadn’t taken him long to draw a bath; nor had it taken long for her to disrobe and allow the steaming water to consume every inch of her body. Claude remained there, crouching beside the metal tub, his fingers idly skimming the surface of the water. Every so often he let his finger dive beneath the surface for a few beats before removing it. Both of them sat inhaling the soft scent of lavender.

In these moments, with just the two of them, the maid saw the serenity he was capable of. She found herself unable to remember the very simple fact that he was supernatural. She watched him turn slowly from a stone wall incapable of even faking an emotion, to this. A demon with a content smile drawn on his features and his eyes gliding over the ripples in the water as though he’d never seen it happen before.

Sebastian’s inquiry fought to the forefront of her mind. His sultry words squeezing at her heart. A jolt shot through her body; it caused the Demon to draw his focus to the maid. His eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Sebastian asked me a question earlier. A series of them, most pointless but one in particular.” The maid began, any confidence within her dissipated the instant Claude shifted closer to the bath. His fingers retreating from the water and resting on the metal. She hoped she would get the answer she imagined on her way back to the Manor. “He asked me why you kept me around, he said the other servants were demons and that with those four and yourself, there was really no need for-“

A guttural growl fell from Claude’s lips, his eyes darkening in rage as he gripped the metal tighter. The Trancy butler would’ve, in this second, liked nothing more than to destroy Sebastian. A task that he deemed easy considering the demon hadn’t fed in a few years. Yet, when Claude looked towards the shivering maid, who had so cleverly and without knowing stolen his thoughts, the tension within him dissipated.

“Claude?” She whispered, a damp hand settling above his own. Faustus winced; his eyes falling onto where they had joined. She’d touched him before. The maid had caressed his cheek one evening whilst he pretended to be asleep, in a poor attempt to keep the fact that he was a demon from her. He’d felt the soft callouses of her fingers on his skin for several days, and in the dead of night he imagined what it would feel like should she caress other parts of him. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

It took a while for Claude to register her words; he was too busy discerning the loss of her warmth. Once it had settled in his brain the butler had all but fell backwards, his legs crouched by the side of the tub buckled as he lost his composure. Her touch hadn’t caused him pain, it had startled him, the feel of her flesh on his own had drawn him into the fantasies that lurked in the darkest parts of his mind, reserved for painfully long evenings.

“You didn’t harm me,” He uttered. Claude’s voice almost sounded foreign to himself. He hadn’t spoken for a while and the sudden crack as he returned to his position by the tub. His knees firmly planted on the concrete floor. Quietly she watched him, his eyes doing their best to avoid hers, should she see the hunger prowling. Claude dipped his finger into lukewarm water. “You should get out soon, I’d hate to have you sick, think of the additional work.” He commented. He was trying to hide behind his cruelty, like the coward he hated to be.

“Yes sir, sorry” She apologised, her voice cracking slightly. She was still picturing Michaelis’ words, she was reminding herself she held no real value to the Trancy Household and in that reminder, she had begun to thread the words into her subconscious. She was a mere plaything. An example for the servants on how a human servant act, and once they were bored of this charade, they’d dispose of her.

Claude watched her; he could practically see the thoughts weighing down on her. The heart, which should never have existed, within his chest tore a little. He missed her smile. The one that he’d receive at the crack of dawn as she wiped away the sleep from her eyes, and the same one that he had been allowed to see as the same sleep from the morning fought for control of her body. Every night she’d go out of her way to say goodnight to him; she’d even stood outside their master’s room and waited for Claude to leave before she gave her sleepy grin and whispered goodnight. A few times he’d carried her to her room; her head against his chest. On those occasions he’d find his demonic nature softening as he tucked her into her rickety old bed, his gloved fingers placing stray hair behind her ear before – in an uncharacteristic moment – he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Unable to help himself and as he moved back, he would find that smile on her features.

“You shouldn’t listen to demons” He announced; at this point Claude had fully submerged his hand. The limb sat limp for a moment in the water. “We’re notorious liars, thieves, scoundrels and we say whatever we can to plant those seeds of doubt in unsuspecting innocent humans. I’ve done in a thousand times before, in order to tempt someone else’s meal to move towards me.” He continued.

“Someone else’s meal…” she breathed. Claude frowned at his own reckless explanation. The woman before him was nothing like food to him. Her soul held no nutritional value to him; it would never hold that meaning to him.

“My apologies, that was not what I meant” Claude admitted. “That uncouth demon chose you to tempt because it would cause trouble for me.”

“Trouble…how?” She questioned. Claude growled in frustration. This was the first time in a long time that he had ever struggled with his words. Inhaling deeply the demon reached for her hand beneath the water, his fingers brushed against hers briefly as he settled his mind and focused on what he was going to say next.

“This isn’t working” Claude huffed, his fingers – that had settled beside her – wrapped around her wrist like they had done earlier. A small tug as her body fell towards his, his eyes searching her features as he placed his other hand beneath her chin. “What I’m trying to get across to you is this”

She felt his breath across her lips as he hesitated briefly. It was just the shortest of moments as he questioned his resolve once again before his lips found hers. The hand around her wrist releasing her. He gave her the option to move away from him as their lips moved with each other. He let her have the time to regain control of her logical thoughts; and yet it had been her to place her hands on his first. Her hand rested behind his neck whilst the other found his shirt as their breaths mingled.

The room felt a few degrees warmer to her once they had separated. Her hands still firmly rooted against him.

“In short, I keep you here because beside me is where I need you, you hold more value to me than the others, if anything the other four could be replaced in an instant but you, I could scour the world for centuries and never find a replacement for.” Claude uttered. “You make me feel things that should be impossible and that both scares me and excites me”

[chubbyheroesworthyheroes]

How about Silas (Fates) and Raphael (3H)? In Silas' supports with Kaze, Kaze is secretly giving him more food as thanks for saving him (like refilling Silas' soup bowl when Silas isn't looking). I thought this could continue unnoticed until Silas can't fit into his armor. For Raph, I figure he's the type of person whose solution to everything is MOAR GAINZ. So what if Balthus bests him in practice combat, so Raph ups his caloric intake but ends up putting on a layer of chonk (and a big gut)?

editing? dont know em--

After their conversation, Silas believed he had gotten through to Kaze about how he didn’t need to pay him back for helping him against that Faceless -- especially since the other man had similarly ended up saving the Nohrian knight not too long after. As far as Silas was aware, they were even and just helping each other out as comrades.

But, on Kaze’s end, wanting to repay the knight for his deeds was just one part of why he was sneakily adding on to the other’s meals. Yes, he was grateful for the rescue, and he took repaying that debt very seriously, but that had been paid back in full by now. No, there was something else that kept Kaze by the silver haired knight’s side, but it wasn’t quite something he knew how to explain, so he let everyone else simply assume that they’d bonded and become good friends.

Which wasn’t wrong, per se, Kaze did actually enjoy Silas’ company. He just...also greatly enjoyed watching the other man eat to the point of being perhaps a little too full.

In Hoshido, especially if one was in the military, such indulgement wasn’t something tolerated. A soldier must be primed for a fight at all times, so while meals were always nourishing and flavorful, there wasn’t often such excess given to those in their station. From what he knew of Nohr, food was not as bountiful as it was in Hoshido, though it was safe to assume that the higher class was given access to the best regardless. Perhaps that was what drove some part of the ninja to give Silas more. Was it not good to give more to those who had been lacking in the same boons as your country’s riches?

But, even that didn’t ring ultimately truthful. At least, not entirely. It, of course, made him feel good to make sure his companions were all taken care of, but there was something else that lurked behind those good intentions. Some morbid interest in watching -- either from close by or afar, both were simple enough to accomplish with his skills in stealth -- another eat and eat, unaware of how much they were stuffing into themselves until something in their brain finally clicked and told them to stop, only it was too late already and they had to stay where they were, bloated and groaning.

It made Kaze flustered and just a little pent up merely thinking about it.

So, he kept up his activities in secret, adding on extras to Silas’ meals and observing -- both going unnoticed..

---

It had been some weeks now since Kaze’s focus on Silas had started. As someone trained to be both extremely observant and incredibly stealthy at the same time, it was a little baffling to see that the knight...had not noticed anything different about his meals. Kaze knew exactly how much he had been adding -- never too much at once, so as to not raise any unnecessary suspicion, slowly giving more and more when it seemed like the other had unknowingly grown accustomed to the portions -- and he was always cautious not to overdo it, but it was still a bit of a surprise that the Nohrian was still so unawares. It wasn’t a bad thing -- certainly not for Kaze -- and it spoke to Silas’ trust and camaraderie with everyone else in Corrin’s army. If it were anything serious, Kaze would be concerned for the knight’s willingness to so easily trust, but it was endearing all the same, and made curiosity gnaw at the back of his mind at how far he could go and still get away with this unnoticed.

Silas’ obliviousness towards what and how much went into his mouth also seemed to extend towards himself. While diligent in his training and duties, he wasn’t very preoccupied with how he looked. He cared where it mattered, of course; he didn’t want to reflect poorly on his dear friend, Corrin, and always looked presentable. But he seemed to have no qualms about himself.

So, where Kaze noticed the way his riding trousers now clung to the curves of his fuller ass, or how his fine shirts pressed cozily against the slight roll of chub that had appeared at his lower belly, Silas seemed perfectly happy not registering that anything was different. And that knowledge only made the heat inside Kaze grow, knowing that this was something of a perfect storm for him. If he weren’t so naturally mild mannered and quiet, Kaze would almost say the thought of what this could turn into made him giddy.

But, it was still early on in this little game, and there was still every chance that it would end when Silas took note of the changes.

---

“Whew, I must be coming down with something, because I just can’t seem to cool off!” Kaze overheard Silas one day, his attention immediately drawn away from his current task.

It was easy enough to fake taking inventory of their supplies to eavesdrop on the knight’s conversation.

“We do have warm summers here in Hoshido, perhaps you are simply not yet used to them, my friend,” came Ryoma’s sure and steady voice, his tone amused.

Kaze darted his gaze over to the two, who must have been finishing up some early morning sparring before the heat of the day got too bad. Prince Ryoma was, indeed, in good spirits; his expression mirthful as he exchanged some more words with Silas. Where there was some color to the prince’s face from the exertion of mock battle, it was clear he was fairing far better than his partner. Silas had at some point forgone his shirt due to the heat, giving Kaze a fantastic chance to get a good look at the effects his additions were having on the other man. The silver haired knight had never been particularly outstanding when it came to muscle mass, but he was at least a little above your average.

But now, where there had just been a small roll of flesh at his middle, there was a rather proper belly blossoming. That little bit of softness had risen like dough into a chubby midsection, still firm from his activities but clearly showing that he’d been getting well-fed lately. Where his belly curved out at the navel, it had the cutest bounce when he moved. It wasn’t anywhere near large enough to knock into his thighs yet, but it did create a nice rolling slab of chub that pinched in at his sides if he moved a certain way. But, Kaze was sure that when the man sat, that soft curve of his lower belly likely had started to brush the plushness of his thighs. His upper body was still fairly defined, though his pecs were rounding out nicely and there were some softer edges coming in on his upper arms and his face.

Well-fed.

That description sent a wave of heat down the back of the ninja’s neck, his unnoticed gaze burning hot as he took in every curve and rounded edge. Silas’ pale skin was flushed a delightful pink, both from the sun and the physical activity of getting in some training. Kaze wondered, vaguely, if he were to grab hold of that soft, pink belly, how would it feel? If he were to caress it gently, would the other even notice? Would he finally see, if he were to squeeze?

No, that would risk ruining the game when it was just picking up.

---

Kaze decided to add another layer to their little game, even if Silas was unaware that they were playing one. It had proven far too easy to keep adding food to the other man’s meals, so on top of constantly making those meals bigger, Kaze began coming up with excuses for giving Silas food in between the usual meal times.

It was easy enough to convince the other man to eat something after training sessions. After such physical strain, it was best to replenish the body with some food, was it not? Silas never seemed to notice that Kaze himself didn’t adhere to this supposed fact, or that the portions of food he was being given were far larger than needed to replace whatever his body had burned through while training. It was a little more difficult to get him to eat when he was out on patrols, as he stated that he wanted to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice if he needed to, but if he were on late night patrols, Kaze could more easily coax him into taking a small break to eat -- especially if he agreed to keep an eye out while the knight dug into his food.

More and more, any free time Silas had seemed to be taken up by food. He was a frequent face at the mess hall, and even when he wasn’t there at meal times, he always conveniently seemed to have food on hand -- and constantly stuffed in his chubby face.

And it was all because of Kaze. He was there, every step of the way, watching and providing and biding his time. As deliciously excruciating as the wait had been, Kaze was ready to claim his prize.

“Hey, Kaze…,” Silas hesitantly broached, his round cheeks flushed red -- from embarrassment, or from huffing and puffing his way through the camp, Kaze could only guess at. “I have a little bit of a problem. Well...Little is probably not the right word--”

Kaze inclined his head, to denote that he was still listening to the knight ramble on, but he would privately admit, he was more focused on accounting for all the new weight that had settled in so well on the Nohrian’s frame.

For the most part, Silas was very well rounded; it gave him a pleasant, overall plush sort of look. His face was cherubic, with round, red cheeks and a softened jawline that dipped into a double chin that looked all too natural on his kind face. It hadn’t taken too long after Kaze had ramped up his feedings for Silas’ upper body to sort of catch up to the rest of him; his upper arms still clung to a slight firmness, but that also might have simply been from how tightly they were squeezed into the sleeves of the shirt he was currently wearing, his now rather hefty looking moobs similarly looking quite confined in his struggling shirt. He hadn’t even bothered -- or couldn’t, a thought that delighted Kaze -- done up the laces at the front, which left some of that pale, fat titfflesh free to jostle for an escape attempt that was truly only hampered by whatever integrity was left of this formerly well-fitting piece of clothing.

Of course, as his eyes traveled lower, it was clear to see that the shirt was...much less of a shirt, and more of a crop top that was just adequate enough to contain his moobs. Because, really, gloriously, Silas’ gut could no longer be contained by something so trivial. His upper belly was round and almost taught -- likely from the large breakfast he’d spent a good two hours shoveling into his hoggish mouth -- becoming a perfect resting shelf for his squishy breasts. While his lower belly, separated from the upper by a swelling roll of fat, hung lower and softer on his expanded frame. It quite easily draped over the other man’s crotch, even while standing, and almost every heavy breath or lumbering movement made it wobble just so. Stretch mark covered love handles fought for room at his sides, perched precariously atop widened hips that had the most luscious curves to them thanks to plentiful food and all of the horse riding that had given him such a nice form to begin with.

His thighs were nothing short of powerfully built, even with the thick layer of lard that now encased them. And, my...his ass really was something to behold; a beautiful bubble butt, straining the ass of his trousers so dearly, Kaze felt like he could almost hear the seams splitting as they stood there.

“--So, do you...do you think you could help?”

The ninja blinked, coming out of his hungered staring to just catch the tail end of whatever Silas had been talking about.

“Yes, of course. I will do my best to aid you, my friend,” he responded swiftly, not even realizing what he was agreeing to until the other man dragged him over to the neatly organized set of his armor.

Oh. Oh, well now, this was better than he could have hoped, really. Silas had recruited him to do what he’d been desiring for months now.

“I’d do it myself, of course, but...uh, I’ve been having some recent trouble reaching around to some of the straps and buckles,” Silas chuckled nervously, his already flushed face seeming to go a deeper red at this admission.

Ah, so he’d finally noticed just how large his eating habits had made him? Fascinating that it had taken so long, but denial could be a powerful thing.

“It’s not a problem,” Kaze assured in a smooth tone of voice, waiting for Silas to start attempting to put on his armor. The breastplate and backplate came together via leather straps at the shoulders and sides, tightened and held in place by rather standard looking buckles. As Silas held the plate armor in place, Kaze tried to secure the straps. And, truly, he did try -- where was the fun if he didn’t get to see what an absolute mess the other man had made of himself with his lack of control, aided by his own pampering and spoiling with food and treats aplenty? He tugged on the straps as hard as he could, smiling softly to himself at the little noises Silas’ tried to stifle at the jostling and how the knuckles of his fingers couldn’t escape grazing or sinking into the warm flesh of the knight’s sides. If he pulled both sides tight enough, he could get the straps to touch, but nowhere near close enough to actually secure them with the buckle.

Kaze couldn’t resist pinching at the silver haired man’s love handles, apologizing and excusing it off as the metal from the buckle catching him by accident.

“It’s no use, is it…?” Silas sighed, cheeks puffing out just a little more from the simple act.

Kaze gave him a sympathetic look as he helped him remove the much outgrown piece of armor, his hand coming to pat the other on the back. “We can always get you refitted. It might have a slightly different style, but our blacksmiths are quite skilled; I’m sure they could replicate it to your tastes, if you so wish.”

The Nohrian seemed about to say something else, but Kaze chose now to make his kill, as it were. His tone and demeanor not shifting from gentle and comradely, he very brazenly brought a gloved hand to the other’s stomach, his thumb hooking easily into Silas’ navel as he grabbed a handful of chub and gave him an exploratory squeeze. It was just as soft as he’d imagined, but there was a firm layer to it too, if he dug his fingers in hard enough, that he found to be quite pleasant. A nice balance.

Humming softly to himself, Kaze continued his tactile exploration while urging them both forward in the direction of the mess hall. “I would greatly desire to see how long it would take you to outgrow a larger set of armor…”

If Silas could keep from giving in to Kaze’s offerings of food long enough to even have another set made before he ate his way out of it, that is.

Silas, sputtering and doing his best to keep up with the revelation, didn’t object to the idea nor did he fight against where Kaze was leading him.

[yanderecandystore]

I really like your work. Can I request another yandere among us I really liked the first one?

Look boo, I thought that it would be nice to change a little of the dynamics, yet now I'm kinda concerned at my performance here ;-; thank you so much for liking my stuff tho, really kind of you boo

TW/Tags: unrequited love cliches // this is a continuation of (🌱🌌🔪) ←this/ A wild simp appears! // I'm sorry for using such a cliche, I just felt like it would work nice lol // some yandere tendencies with a little twist maybe // I feel like I could have done better, let me know what y'all think tho

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

"- You're pretty sus, not gonna lie." Ch - 2 [Yandere!Among Us x Reader - Short Fanfiction]:

You wake up agitated after a bad dream. It wasn't terrifying as a nightmare, just… Bad. You can't remember what it was all about now that you woke up, yet you feel like it was something bad.

(Ch - 1)

Maybe you're starting to lose it. Or maybe you just had a bad night and that's it.

Well, "night", again you're floating through space, time doesn't really apply over here, yet to keep the crew from feeling too alienated, Black and White decided to create a little routine so everyone can be occupied but also have time to relax and do something that brings joy to the crewmates.

It may be silly, but in a situation that you don't know when you'll go back home and if you're going to go back at all, is pretty terrifying. So something silly like that really helps.

You like to record vocal diaries every time you're going to bed, and sometimes when you wake up. Sometimes you just want to record your crazy dreams, others are to help you feel more energized to start the day.

To be honest, you don't want to get out of bed, it's so comfy and you just wish you could stay and enjoy the comfort of your bed for a little longer. Besides, because of your nightmare you feel like you haven't slept at all!

But of course, all good things must end.

"- WAKE UP, SLEEPY HEAD!" Red was banging on your door.

"- You're late, dumbass." You heard a voice that you could only guess was from Orange.

You look up at the clock on top of your nightstand to see that you were in fact, one hour late.

"- I-I'm coming!" You scuttle to put on your clothes. Normally you would have taken a shower first thing when you get out of your room but… Well, you're too late for that!

"- You'll miss breakfast!" Red said, apparently he was still waiting for you.

After awkwardly changing your clothes, you opened the door to find Red and Cyan waiting for you. Red had hugged you tight the moment you appeared.

"- What took you so long, sleeping beauty?" He ruffed your hair again, this time being a little more gentle, and you guess it's because of how sleepy you still are.

"- Ugh, I didn't manage to get enough sleep." You whine, even if you did sleep, somehow you still feel like you were robbed of a good peaceful night.

Maybe it was the worries clouding your mind. The fear of never going back to Earth.

"- Yeah, I know how you feel." Red said while pulling you to follow him to the cafeteria. Cyan was right behind.

"- Really?" You asked the energetic man, concerned he is also dealing with nightmares.

"- Yeah, ya know? I heard things crawling in the vents all night." He said, darkening his tone of voice when he said literally the creepiest shit ever.

"- What!?" You said, well- Practically yelled. You felt like you instantly woke up at the idea of something dangerous lurking in the ventilation. N-not that you were scared or anything!

"- Nah, I'm joking." He turned his head to look at you with a little smug face, proud of how he manages to catch you.

"- Oh, come on man! You scared me…" You elbowed him weakly. You almost had a heart attack thinking about it!

"- Ha! Don't worry okay? It was just a joke to wake you up. If you're scared so much than-"

"- You don't need to worry, [Y/N]. I can reassure you that nothing is going to hurt you." Red was interrupted when Cyan decided to butt their way into the conversation.

"- What- How are you so sure?" You were surprised by their sudden voice. They spoke so seriously, you turned around and saw how they didn't seem to be joking.

"- I… Won't let it happen." They said almost questioning it. Not only was the idea of protecting their prey absolutely ridiculous and foreign to them, but they were considering the fact that it sounded pretty obvious, why would you even question it?

"- Come on man, I was just about to say that." Red said, a little bit shyly compared to his normal attitude. He looked so down even though he was trying to keep his smile on his face.

Tension was slowly rising and you were starting to catch on to it.

"- I- Wait, are your two really that worried about me? Come on guys, don't worry about it! I can protect myself too, you know?" You said trying to place yourself in-between them, distracting them from the weird stares they kept throwing at each other.

"- Sure you can, so, let's just go to the cafeteria already." Red's entire demeanor had changed out of nowhere. You were a little scared about how off putting it is to see him… Angry?

Cyan had taken your left arm, pulling you closer to them than to Red. It wasn't too obvious to an outsider perspective, yet it did make a bit of a difference when you were pulled closer to them.

"- He is acting strange." They whispered to you, hopefully Red didn't hear it. You didn't say anything as you only looked at Cyan with a concerned expression.

The day hasn't even started yet and it was already going to be a bad day.

While this whole event was happening, Cyan was pissed at how the human Red was acting strange. Not only had he taken you in his arms for a long period of time (a pretty long hug for "friends"), Red had made sure to not include Cyan in the conversation. Hell, he even made sure to keep you near him rather than them! What was he doing, trying to piss them off? And for what purpose??

The thing that really sparked annoyance in Cyan's head was how he lies blatantly to your face, only so you could be scared so he could sound like the hero in this situation. Cyan knows Red didn't listen to them crawling the vents, Red was sleeping like a rock the entire time Cyan was wandering around the ventilation.

Cyan had entered his room to collect information, and oh boy, had they collected some information. They started to think that maybe you would be better off away from Red.

Cyan had soon caught what Red was trying to do, he was trying to court you. And what a pathetic display of courting, it's not like Red was bringing any proof of how "strong" and "protective" he could be to you.

If Cyan were in your place, they would have eaten Red's face as a sign of disapproval.

Cyan had seen you sleeping that night, they saw you having night terrors. You went from peacefully sleeping to having nightmares in only a couple of minutes, so no wonder why you didn't sleep well.

Ugh. They were probably overreacting. They shouldn't care that about the half-assed courting they just witnessed, they shouldn't even care that you had night terrors! They should only care about their next meal, yet-

Yet, they don't know why, but-

Seeing Red be so desperate for your attention is messing with their heads. If Cyan was in your place, they would have rejected his request and tried to wait for someone a lot more competent to show up.

"- So. How it's your tasks going?" Red asked you. It's been three hours after the incident, and you were now finishing your tasks when Red suddenly decided to join in.

"- I'm doing okay, how about you? Did you finish yours?" You asked, still paying attention to your own work.

"- Yeah, I did… Look, I want to say sorry for earlier. I guess I overreacted, heh." He apologized, clearly embarrassed by the fact he acted so jealous in front of you.

Red had started to get easily fascinated by your person. You're incredible in his eyes, and even if you didn't reciprocate your feelings towards him, he at least hopes you don't end up with someone like Cyan.

Someone that is a coward and a player, someone who is very aware of how you feel towards them yet keeps you in the dark just because they're "afraid" of turning into something official with you. If he knew that the whole crew would be in this terrible situation that you're in right now, Red would have made a move earlier.

He thought that Cyan had stopped trying to be with you, yet apparently not.

"- That's okay, I guess we're all losing our minds slowly." You told Red even though you were mentioning that more to yourself. You feel like you also need to calm yourself down, since the gravity of your situation was starting to settle in a lot stronger than anticipated.

"- Yeah, I agree." He was losing his cool, he had to admit that. He remembers listening to you and Cyan yesterday, he couldn't understand everything going on after he had joked about you and Cyan making out in the halls, but he remembers hearing something that sounded like Cyan scolding you for… Worrying? Really? Honestly, what monster would ever consider scolding someone like you for being worried about their safe being?!

A lunatic, clearly. Someone who doesn't deserve your worries, yet you keep going towards them! You keep being kind to someone who is a lunatic if not an absolute moron.

Oh, here we go again. He is being negative again, he needs to keep calm if he wants to keep the bad thoughts away from his mind, but it's already too late.

Every time Cyan is unfair to you, he has these bad, intrusive thoughts. How annoying.

"- I'll go see how Cyan is doing, see you later [Y/N]." He said. His entire mood has been pretty down the whole day, you noticed how his normally uplifting voice has been pretty serious the entire time.

You say goodbye as you still have many tasks to do. You wonder if you should consult White about this, everyone seems to be on edge lately and it's starting to affect your environment-

"- Oh, [Y/N]! Do you need any help?" You turned your head around at the sound of a sweet voice calling you.

"- Hey Yellow. I do need some help, but are you sure? I don't want to be a burden." You said noticing the shy girl coming forward.

" Not at all! I-I want to help! I just finished my own tasks so I thought it would be nice to be useful." She was probably feeling anxious since the last meeting, trying to search for someone to help and talk with.

You decided to let her join you, Yellow has her quirks yet- You really like her, she can be pretty comforting to be around.

While you and the crew were doing tasks, Cyan was trying to find a good opportunity for their next victim. Their hunger had started to become stronger, and because they refused to eat human food (they're very picky), they haven't been able to gain enough energy to go through the day.

They need some flesh, and it needs to be as soon as possible-

"- Hey!" Oh look, that sounds like free food.

"- Hello, Red." They said, their rough voice was raspy due to the fact that they haven't eaten in a while. Their tone didn't hide the annoyance at seeing such a low human in their presence.

"- I wanted to tell you something. Can we talk?" He said. Cyan wasn't too interested in what he had to say, yet they were intrigued to know why he couldn't just say what he wanted in the first place.

Cyan noticed that they couldn't simply get rid of him just yet. There were at least three people here. The rude Blue one, the little Lime thingy talking with the Purple guy.

"- Privately, that is." Red had looked around, giving a glare towards Blue's direction, which caused them to flinch when noticing the odd way the male was acting out of nowhere.

"- Of course." He was making their job a lot easier. He took them to an empty room, O2.

"- So, what do you want- Argh!" Red took the opportunity to pin Cyan to the wall. The sudden reaction took the much stronger creature by surprise, and although they could simply split him in half, Cyan decided to see where this was going.

"- What it's your problem?" Cyan choked, since Red was forcing his arm in their throat. Then again, they could easily get out of his grip.

"- You. You're acting weird since yesterday and-" He paused, was he really about to say it? Would he really let his jealousy get in the middle of his friendship?

"- And you have been acting weird especially with [Y/N], I heard you two yesterday." Red confessed.

"- Oh, fascinating, is that why you've been giving me bad looks every now and then?" But Cyan did not seem to care for what Red was telling them. I mean, they only been here for like- 24 hours, and even so they could see Red's feelings towards you from a mile away.

"- Are you jealous?" Cyan provoked the unstable man. Clearly the time spent inside this spaceship has been messing with his mind.

"- No! I'm- I'm being serious here, [Y/N] was concerned about your well-being yet you got mad at them!" Red's grip from Cyan's neck was slowly fading as he was starting to get more agitated.

"- And what does any of that has to do with you?" Cyan asked, pushing Red's arms away from them, which caused him to notice how irrational he was being.

"- Just- Just stay away from them, okay? I thought you didn't even-" He interrupted himself, he was sounding so… Different, from his normal self. He was sounding like an possessive freak, even he could tell.

"- … I didn't what, Red?" Cyan was starting to get bored by the human's whining. In less than 48 hours, humans have proven to be simply too emotional, letting their distrust eat them away. Even for a creature as anxious as Cyan, they can at least think twice before doing something stupid.

Something stupid like provoking a creature that could easily kill him.

"- Stay away from them." Red warned them, while deciding that the best course of action would be to leave them alone.

He wasn't acting like usual self, yet, it doesn't seem like he cares at this point. He was stuck in this hell, no one can judge him for losing his mind a little. Wouldn't you lose it as well if you were stuck in space?

Cyan however wasn't really impressed by the male's threat. They didn't even do anything for him to be so feisty, they haven't even tried anything with you for stars sake.

Maybe he was truly starting to lose it, or maybe the original Cyan did say something regarding you. Yet, it doesn't matter now.

Red is unstable, acting like a douche towards the crew, even if they didn't have anything to do with this conversation in the first place! It wouldn't take long before he turned into a burden in the eyes of the rest, just like Blue is already considered the most unlikeable asshole in this place.

Although Cyan was already pretty hungry they just lost the opportunity to both satisfy their hunger and the want to choke Red, they thought about something more interesting. There are way too many humans here, and if Red suddenly died, people would be suspicious of Cyan and you, since he is always near you two.

But what if, there was a way to get rid of Red while also satisfying their hunger?

Could they create a scene where Red is the "culprit" of someone else's death?

It doesn't sound so unlikely now that they think about it.

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

P

[maybe-itll-be-someday]

How Far We’ll Go

Thank you, as always, to the immeasurably wonderful @jetaime-jespere for her support, friendship, and beta of this chapter. 

I am a better writer with every word because of you. 

Read on AO3.

Chapter 16

By the time flowers bloom from small buds aided by the warmth of spring, they celebrate Jack's seventh birthday at a local park and she stops monopolizing Aaron’s every thought.

The passing months had dulled the persistent ache in his chest - the one that had set him on edge after the wedding, traces of her perfume in his nose and her taste on his tongue. He had pressed his phone to his ear, a blush of a mark that she had drawn on the base of his collarbone, with absolutely no clue as to what he wanted to say. He just wants to hear her voice and ask her why.

Aaron tries for three days, her new number practically burned into his keypad as he dials the same thirteen digits over and over again. The night on that balcony was a sliver of hope, a small flicker that ignited a flame he had thought had long gone out. But the flame is extinguished as fast as it starts, doused by the never-ending dial tone in his ear and dozens of unreturned calls.

She never answers and he decides that he isn’t going to spend his life waiting for a phone call that would never come.

Aaron perfects a routine that avoids anything too reminiscent of her. He gets the strength to clear the expired creamer in his fridge he's conveniently forgotten about, tossing the shampoo bottle that's been nearly empty for months, and gifts the cat mug to Garcia who was none the wiser as to its previous owner. He starts to drink coffee at the office instead of at home and drives to and from work in a route that avoids the park they used to train at and the cafe where he first realized that his feelings had morphed into something soft and sweet, like the lemon curd pancakes that she used to order.

Now, he and Jack eat waffles on Sundays.

--

She meets Mark through a friend, being pushed into a conversation by their mutual connection, who insisted that they would get along. Emily resents the introduction, but feigns interest and agrees because she's lonely and for once, she doesn't want to think about the way the rough edges of brick pressed into her back as he drilled into her, as desperate and erratic as she felt.

Mark is surprisingly engaging, witty and smart as he talks about his work in corporate law, specializing in mergers and acquisitions. He's incredibly normal - filling his days with visiting his parents on the weekends and running when he can squeeze it into his calendar. His eyes light up when he talks about how he enjoys kayaking in the mornings and Emily is jealous of the seemingly simple life he lived. She finds herself drawn to the light he exudes because all she's known is shadows, secrets lurking with threats of unravelling the composure she's carefully built. He's bright and unscathed, and she wants a taste of what that's like.

When he slips her his number, soft and sweet into her palm, she blushes.

She tries to ignore that his eyes aren't the shade of brown that she wants and promises to call him.

--

Mark is sweet and persistent, insisting on seeing her again. She's hesitant at first, her breath hitching when he asks if she wants to get dinner the following Saturday, if she wasn't travelling for work. He has a very minimal understanding of what she did and for that, she's grateful, avoiding having to relive memories she isn’t interested in sharing.

She realizes that she'll probably never be truly honest with him, but says yes anyways.

He's easy to read. He's nervous, evident by the constant tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves, unconsciously fidgeting the small buttons between his fingers. He tries to impress her with his knowledge of wine, but quickly admits that he really didn't know the difference between wines aside from being red and white. She laughs and orders a Merlot that she loves and asks him what it’s like to be a corporate lawyer.

The conversation flows easily as does the wine, swapping book recommendations and Mark insisting that she would love hiking and that he would take her sometime. When the wine blurs her vision slightly, he kisses her and they end up back at her apartment, their clothes strewn across the living room as he touches her nervously as if she was made of glass. He's clumsy and unsure, fumbling with the zipper of the black dress she wore and spends a while attempting to unhook her bra. He finishes before she does and she barely gets anywhere, the coil in her abdomen tight with no relief in sight.

She slips into her shower when he falls asleep, muscles taut and tense, a stalled release still deep in her. She turns her shower head to the highest pressure and lets the warm water beat on her skin as she stroked herself, chasing the release that she needed after months of large piles of paperwork and being pulled away on one case after another.

Emily thinks of him, the veins on his forearms that formed ridges underneath his skin, thick and bulging as his fingers stretched her open. How he had curled right there and flicked just like this and it isn't long until she's toppling over the edge with the well-worn memories of him seared into the back of her eyelids.

She slips into bed next to Mark when her muscles are looser, the warm shower and orgasm dissipating the remaining tension she's been carrying around for weeks. She stiffens when she realizes that all the covers are pulled over around him, leaving no warmth on her side of the bed and she fights the annoyance that flashes through her and the subsequent pang in her chest.

She hated it when they hogged the covers.

--

The next morning, he makes her breakfast of eggs that he had run to the store to get while she was asleep.

Mark’s in her kitchen, using the only pan that she owns because she really doesn't cook aside from easy mixes she could throw together quickly, and makes her slightly overdone scrambled eggs and apologizes for falling asleep last night and wants to see her again. He's still nervous, fidgeting with last night's clothes that he had thrown on in an attempt to look decent, and she doesn't have the heart to say no .

Mark is uncomplicated and distracting and she wants to be distracted.

He smiles wide and drops a kiss on her lips before saying that he had plans with his sister and would call her later.

The eggs are left untouched on the counter.

She makes chocolate chip pancakes instead.

--

He meets a museum curator named Beth when he volunteers to chaperone Jack’s field trip. He had snuck away from the rest of the group, choosing to wander over to the classical art section as the kids ran mayhem in the dinosaur exhibit downstairs. His ears were starting to ring from the loud, high-pitched conversations about the stegosaurus and figures that a break would save his sanity.

He’s staring at a painting that is adorned with broad strokes of red. It’s an abstract piece of work, the lines fluid and dancing across the canvas. The movement reminds him of waves of red fabric, draped across ivory thighs and falling with every thrust of his hips.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A light voice chimes, shattering the memory and suddenly reminding him where he is. He turns to the sound of the voice and his breath is slightly knocked out of his chest.

A pair of dark brown eyes are staring up on him, accompanied by a bright smile and deep dimples. Long brunette locks cascading like waves down her shoulder, a lightness to her that he doesn’t think he’s seen before. She radiates light.

He isn’t used to it - his entire life had somehow been shaded in different layers of darkness. His father’s calloused knuckles, Haley and his divorce, Haley’s death, Emily’s sudden departure after a taste of what his life could’ve been like. Things that brought him light were usually ripped away, torn from his hands at the seams. He’s used to lurking in the darkness.

“It’s gorgeous.” He says and she smiles.

Later, with her number saved into his phone and promises to call if he wanted to come back for a private art tour, Aaron wonders if she can help shine a light on the darkness that was determined to follow him around.

--

Emily doesn’t know what’s wrong.

She doesn’t know why her temper flares ever so slightly when his soft palm flexes over her knee. Why when she feels the slenderness of his fingers against her thigh, her first instinct is to pull away.

Her temper flares when he leaves his clothes in the bathroom like a child, the mirror covered in streaks from his fingerprints. She savors being alone at night, glad to not have his cold toes accidentally brush against her calf and his annoying habit of monopolizing the covers on his side.

On nights where she’s alone, grateful for his absence, she tips whiskey into an empty glass and savors the burn of the alcohol.

She used to hate dark liquor.

Now, she doesn’t know what she’d do without it.

--

There’s something about Beth that Aaron can’t quite place.

She’s kind and sweet. She’s smart and passionate about art. Her entire being lights up, her expression animated as she talks to him about the difference between the key differences between Greek and Roman art styles. She drinks tea and loves pop music and brings a smile to his face when she pulls on his hand to dance with him in the middle of her living room on a rare Friday night when Jack is with Jessica while Katy Perry is playing in the background.

Beth makes him smile and for a split second when her lips are on his, he forgets the hole in his chest that he’s gotten better at hiding with time.

It still doesn’t stop his dreams to be filled with memories of her, of maple syrup and of cups of coffee that grew cold on his kitchen island in favor of playing pirates with Jack, or of mornings spent watching the soft morning light dance on crumpled sheets and gentle curves.

Beth is uncomplicated and distracting, and he wants to be distracted.

On a quiet Sunday, he brings her to the cafe that he once frequented. His memories of the place had dulled, now blurred by the passage of time. He wants to make new memories - those untouched by the memory of lemon curd pancakes and their bikes sitting on the rack in front. He holds Beth’s hand loosely in his and guides her through an old routine still embedded in his muscles.

A sting of familiarity hits him, seeing Beth read a menu he thinks once upon a time he could have recited front and back. She orders french toast and a chai tea, which he points out is actually translated to tea tea. He expects her to roll her eyes and sarcastically reply, but instead Beth just smiles and giggles.

He ignores the pang in his chest when he realizes who he really expected that reaction from.

“Is the food okay?” Beth asks out of the blue, snapping Aaron out of his reverie.

“Oh yeah.” He pushes a piece of bacon to the side, suddenly losing all of his appetite. “Just not as hungry as I thought I was.”

Maybe there were just some places where she would always haunt him.

--

When he drops her off at her house, she wraps her arms around his waist and gives him a soft peck.

He catches a whiff of her shampoo and he realizes what it was that he couldn’t place.

Her hair smells like oranges.

He swallows the lump in his throat and promises to call her.

He buys a bundle of oranges before he goes home, determined to rewire his brain to prefer orange to lavender.

--

By the time the leaves start to fall, he’s forgotten what lavender smells like.

--

By the time the leaves start to fall, she feels like she’s simply going through the motions.

She floats through it all - a seemingly mindless blur of passing days. She floats through her days with Mark, her cases with Interpol, and her life in London.

Until one day, she sinks.

--

She loses someone on her team after a year of being their unit chief.

Peters was one of her younger agents. He had a degree from Oxford, an extensive background in linguistics, and had just recently proposed to his long-time girlfriend. He had just turned 31 a few weeks before they lost him.

She doesn’t lose him to another job opportunity or some notion of his that he wanted a normal life outside of days spent travelling to far off countries in pursuit of evil. She loses him to an unsub, a pistol pointed straight at his chest as a man with evil laced in every fiber of his being unloaded four bullets point blank.

She can still recount, moment by moment, how her carefully crafted plan had fallen apart so grandly. They had to lure the unsub into an abandoned warehouse by the river Seine to help the Police Nationale arrest him the moment he stepped one foot past the door.

The unsub, a terrorist from an old cell that Interpol had believed to have broken apart years ago, had lured them into a trap. The cell had gone underground, instead of completely disbanding, and fell off of the Interpol radar. They had resurfaced in recent years and they were on track to arrest the right-hand man of their leader.

If only she had known that while she was concocting a plan, they were already concocting their revenge.

Peters had ended up trapped, the only body in that warehouse as her team scrambled to escape while she was at the command center down the street, ordering whoever was around to get her team out .

She had heard the shots, her heart faltering in her chest when she realizes what those four cracks in the air meant. A moment too reminiscent of that day outside the bank.

Emily doesn’t let her team see her falter. She was their leader and a fearless one at that, and she was determined to keep a stony facade as she delivered the news to his family that he had died in action.

She thinks the sound of his fiancee’s wail at the news that her future husband had died would haunt her for the rest of her life.

“He was a great agent, and it was an honor to have him on our team.” She said, as his fiancee’s face crumbled into tears as his family came around to grab the last of his belongings. She had made a point to clear the desk herself, forcing herself to touch all the things he will never use again and pack them all in a neat box.

Forcing herself to relieve the consequences of her actions over and over again, so that she would never forget how one decision could alter the course of someone’s life.

She wonders how many decisions she’s made that ruined someone else’s life.

--

Peters’ death weighs over her like a stormcloud, the anger and disappointment that brews under her skin seeps into her judgement. Her temper is on a short fuse, mistakes that she would normally let pass now needled with a fine point that she knows is unnecessary. She’s hard on her team, and even harder on herself, in an attempt to grasp some semblance of control after the tragedy had shaken their foundation.

It doesn’t help that her office overlooks her team’s desks and every time she glances up, her heart catches in her throat when she sees the new agent is at his desk, empty of the framed picture he kept of his fiancee and the pictures of his family he tacked on his cube wall.

She’s no stranger to the nightmares that start haunting her after his death.

She wakes up in a cold sweat most nights, and on the nights that she’s with Mark, she tries to drown herself in wine to blur the dreams so she didn’t startle him with her nightmares.

It only lasts two weeks before the dreams get too intense even with the aid of an extra glass of wine at dinner and Mark insists that she start seeing a counselor. Clyde insists on it too, when she comes into his office with dark circles under her eyes and the heaviness of Peters’ death still clouding her.

He gives her a mandatory two weeks off to try and process his death, ordering her to see an Interpol-approved therapist in London, but the lack of work is more detrimental to her than she anticipated.

Without the menial tasks and challenge of work to keep her occupied, her mind immediately floods to replaying Peters’ death in excruciating detail. How she was powerless at the center of it all, the ice that flooded her veins at the cracks in the air, how she was the one who found his body, a pool of dark red beading underneath the bullet hole in his neck.

She spirals in the silence of her apartment, the vast emptiness of the space that is permeated with loneliness and darkness.

Her phone is pressed against her ear before she can think twice about it, not wanting to back out of a decision that she knew was treading a dangerous line.

There was a chance that he wouldn’t pick up, maybe a twisted form of revenge for letting his calls go ignored, unwilling to provide him with the answers he craved after that night.

He could’ve just let the phone ring, ignoring her call the same way she had done all those months ago. She honestly doesn’t know if she could handle him not answering, despite him having a completely valid reason to.

But he doesn’t. He sounds surprised when he answers, cautiously greeting her.

“Emily? Is everything alright?” Relief floods her at the sound of his voice and she lets out a soft sob at her name passing through his lips.

"You told me to tell you if I was having a bad day." She says, the tears clear in her voice. "I'm having a really bad day, Aaron."

--

She sinks, but Aaron is the lighthouse that guides her out of the darkness.

He listens as she blabbers, managing to get the full story in between tears and soft sobs. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t press for information and instead lets her tell her story at her pace. He makes soft soothing noises while she’s crying and when the sobs dwindle down to soft sniffles, he speaks.

“You did your best, Emily. That's all we can do.” He says. “The rest is part of the job.”

“Who told you that? She sounds wise.” She teases, his words immediately sparking a memory of a shared moment they had in a different lifetime.

“She is.” Aaron’s voice is soft, tone lowered like he was speaking information that needed to be confidential and she can almost see the way his eyes would shift, tucking his chest away from the door.

Another secret, just one more to keep between them.

“His fiancee, Aaron. I don’t think I will ever forget the way that she sounded. The love of her life died.” He understands the implication of her words. It reminds her, too much, of that day at the bank. How she could hear her own curdling screams in Jeanette’s, aware of the hole that opened up in her world the moment that Peters’ blood pooled on that abandoned warehouse floor.

She lived that horror for a brief moment in the ruins of the explosion, searching for him in the rubble.

“She’ll find love again.” He says. “I did.”

Emily doesn’t know if he was referring to her, or the new girl that Penelope had hinted to, but she takes those words and tucks them away to be saved on a day she needed it most, taking its spot right next to Jack’s drawing of the three of them and his old Georgetown shirt. She replays the memory of her old words, when she stares out into the bullpen and straightens out her blazer before walking into her first briefing back.

The rest is part of the job.

--

They start to exchange calls. He starts, calling her one random Tuesday morning as his confidence was fortified by the alcohol in his blood. He was sitting in his hotel room in the Los Angeles heat, a cheap motel that was the only accommodation they could find on such short notice. The air is hot and sticky, the unusual humidity in Southern California causing beads of sweat to form on his neck.

He calls her, skin damp and his chest thick with old wounds resurfacing at the desperation in Mrs. Payton’s voice at his presence at the precinct instead of out in the streets looking for a little girl who was around Jack’s age when he was taken by Foyet.

They had successfully saved Phoebe but he knew all too well how wrong it could have all gone.

He thinks of Haley. He knew that she loved as fiercely as Mrs. Payton, who lashed out at him in the elevator. She was desperate to do anything to save her child.

He knew that Haley’s last sacrifice was the same - done in desperation to save Jack.

The thirteen digits are still embedded in his fingers and he plugs it into his phone the same way that he did that night.

Except this time, she answers.

She stays on the phone with him as long as she can, before she’s whisked away to a series of bureaucratic meetings where her attendance is mandatory. She listens when he talks about the case and doesn’t have to ask him how he feels about it.

She inherently knows which parts of a case would brush too closely to his scars.

“You won, Aaron. You saved her. Don’t kill yourself thinking of what could have happened, because it didn’t.”

He wonders why her words are the salve that soothes the hollow ache in his chest.

The next time he calls her, he doesn’t have any problems to talk through. Instead, he calls with a wordless urge that he’s worked hard to suppress, letting the need for her pour out of his being in a flood. He knows about Mark, a casual detail that Garcia had let slip after one too many margaritas during a team dinner.

But part of him doesn’t care.

“Hi.” He says, a small smile on his face when she answers, breathing his name out in a way that triggers a forgotten memory of soft morning light that broke through his window, the day barely beginning and him already occupied with tracing the length of her spine with his fingers.

He had been without her for so long. He thinks he’d have her anyway she’d take him.

“Did your meeting go well?”

--

He was an addict, and she was his vice.

He craves the way syllables roll off her tongue, the lilt of her laugh when he narrates Jack’s adventure at the water park, accidentally sliding head first on his back on one of the larger slides. His heart skips over itself when her number flashes across the screen, even when he presses ‘ignore’ when Beth eyes his phone at dinner.

“Work?” She asks sweetly and Aaron is unsure if she’s oblivious or giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Just a friend. I’ll call her back later.” Her eyebrows quirk at his response, but she lets it pass and instead brings up the new art exhibit that was coming to her museum.

Emily is the first one to ask about Beth and he’s stunned into silence, unaware that he had given her any information about his current relationship.

“Garcia told me.” She explains and her tone softens at her next words. “You can talk about her, you know.”

So he does. He tells her about how they met, stumbling awkwardly through asking her on a date that he’s pretty sure he really didn’t end up asking anything, and Emily laughs. She tells him about Mark, and the companies that he consulted for, and how he took her hiking and it was a complete disaster. Aaron listens in amusement when she tells him about all the statistics for killers in remote places and how maybe hiking wasn’t going to be her thing.

Despite the subtle ache in his chest when she mentions Mark, he thinks that the comfort she brought him by hearing her stories outweighs the pain.

Emily calls him when she gets stranded in the rain, frustrated and with no one to talk to. She calls him and he smiles and tells her to duck into a coffee shop to wait out the downpour and that he’d keep her company. He calls her when he’s reading a book and wants to talk to someone about it, because he doesn’t think that Beth would understand The Wisdom of Psychopaths .

She listens to his theories and recommends a book to him, and suggests that maybe they exchange opinions over email. He wakes up to a lengthy email from her the next day, a breakdown of all her favorite quotes from the book and links to articles she thought he’d find relevant to the topic.

They learn how to be friends again.

--

She’s not stupid.

She can see the way his eyes lit up when his phone rang, his attention always curiously piqued towards the smartphone he kept face down on the table. He never answered her calls, at least not while he was with her.

It was hard not to know her, when some of Jack’s favorite stories included Emily and he retold them so many times she thinks she could recite them from memory. She knows of the emails Jack would write to her, always tugging on Aaron’s sleeve to hurry up whatever he was doing and help him turn on the computer because Emmy was waiting .

But Aaron never mentioned her. She got clipped answers, saying that she was a colleague at the BAU before she moved to London. She hadn’t found it weird, not at first, until her name started flashing across Aaron’s screen more times than she could count.

He always pressed ‘ignore’, but she had a sneaking suspicion that his early mornings were dedicated to her. He would always slip out of bed, at least an hour or two before she would, and she would awaken to his laugh muffled in the living room.

“Hey, I gotta go.” He would say to whoever was on the phone, and stand up to greet her with a kiss.

It wasn’t until recently, on an early Sunday morning, that she heard a small snippet of what he was hiding from her as she stood in his doorway.

“Come on, Em. You know that the only album that’s worth listening to is the White album.”

Beth didn’t even know that he listened to the Beatles.

She’s not stupid.

--

Syllables tumble out of his mouth, entangled in the dull ecstasy that he was accustomed to after almost a year of being with Beth. He was lost in the snapping movement of his hips, unaware of the words that were slipping from his lips as he teetered on the edge of a release.

She stiffens as he collapses on top of her, a last moan leaving his lips. His sweat is still breaking on his skin when she twists her head away from him in disgust. She pulls away from underneath him, pushing him off with anger.

“Are you okay?” He asks, the sudden change in her demeanor too apparent in the harsh way her hands collide with his chest.

“Do you even know what you just said?” Beth says, her tone biting and unforgiving as she snatches her clothes from the floor, an anger that he’s never synonymized to her suddenly etched into her every feature. Aaron reaches out, wrapping a tender grip around her wrist and she pulls away like his touch radiated with the heat of the sun.

“Beth, I don’t understand.” Aaron says, watching her pull on her clothes and collecting her belongings. She had been prepping for this conversation, for the inevitable break to ten months of companionship. She just didn’t expect it to happen like this.

“Beth, please talk to me.” He pleads, stepping closer to her and stopping her hand from picking up her purse in the chair in the corner.

“Do you know what you said, Aaron?” She asks, the deathly calm in her voice reminiscent of scorned women he’s become familiar with after a long career at the FBI.

“You said her name.”

He doesn’t have to ask who she’s referring to.

He steps back and lets her collect the last of her belongings, her body language stiff and curled as she throws her clothes back on. He doesn’t know if there are any words, if he could say sorry enough times to rectify his mistake.

But he also knows that this relationship would always come to its end.

He knew that before he asked her out for the first time.

“I don’t think you’ll be happy with anyone that isn’t her. Stop lying to yourself, Aaron.” Beth says, before slamming his apartment door shut and walking out of his life.  

He pours himself a whiskey, fishing out an unfinished bottle he thought he’d stop relying on. He lets Beth’s words echo in his head.

I don’t think you’ll be happy with anyone that isn’t her.

Maybe he’d always live with an Emily-shaped hole in his heart, the same way that Haley had.

He would never have his first love again. The sweet, light kind of love that was untouched by the harsh grip of reality. Of broken trust, of crumbling marriages, and of psychopathic serial killers.

He doesn’t think that he’d be happy with anyone as long as Emily was on this Earth.

He realizes that he probably wouldn’t have his last love again either.  

And that was something he had to learn to live with.

--

The nightmares start shortly after Beth breaks up with him.

He’s lived a life made for nightmares, so he isn’t surprised when more than one relentlessly steals his sleep and slowly, his sanity.

Some nights, he’s back to being a small child lurking behind the mustard walls of their corridor, listening to the smack of his father’s fist against his mother’s flesh.

Other nights, he relives Haley’s death in excruciating detail. Every moment was still sharp, constructing perfect reenactments of finding Haley’s body in their old den, the crush of Foyet’s bones underneath his knuckles, and Jack helping him on the case.

He tries to save her, but he’s always too late.

Most nights, it’s about Jack. Some variation of him losing Jack - either to someone who had taken him, or an unidentifiable unsub he’s sure he’s seen before but forgotten, that snatched him from his grasp and dragged him towards the shadows. Old crime scenes reconstructed with snippets of his memories, concocting nightmares that starved him of rest.

It isn’t long before the lack of sleep catches up to him. On top of the horrendous amount of paperwork that he had taken on since Strauss had passed, he knew that he was heading right towards burn out. Exhaustion was almost a regular feeling now - never able to shake the sleep that chased him. He was almost sure his diet was solely cups of coffee and a granola bar when he remembered to eat, his attention unevenly split between work and Jack.

He’s startled out of a nightmare when the unsub points a gun at Jack, and he shoots up from his fitful nap on his uncomfortable office couch with a mild ache in his chest and a panic when he’s not in his apartment. There was an open file in his lap, an unfinished report that he had meant to finish before he got home, still incomplete with pen marks staining the edges of the paper.

He would deal with that later, when he had taken something for the headache that was currently thundering around between his temples.

Aaron clumsily reaches for his phone, dialing Jessica’s number while his heart gallops in his chest, a dull ache creeping in when the phone rings for a second longer than normal.

“Hey Jessica, it’s me. I’m sorry, I dozed off. Is everything alright?”

He doesn’t really register the words he’s saying, a throb of pain shooting in his stomach that passes in an instant. Jessica pauses and Aaron assumes that’s the end of her sentence, his neck muscles tightening with a tension he was sure was caused by the couch.

“Ok. And Jack’s alright?”

Jessica confirms that yes he is alright and yes , she listened to his instructions this time and didn’t feed him dinosaur nuggets.

“Great. I should be there in about half an hour, ok?”

He apologizes again, because this isn’t the first time in the last two months that he’s accidentally missed Jack’s pick up time because of work. His chest is tight and his head spins slightly when he stands, but he’s quick to dismiss it when an Amber Alert comes through his phone.

There was no rest for the weary.

--

She calls him the following Thursday, wanting to ask him about the book he had just recommended.

Her call goes to voicemail and she doesn’t suspect a thing, knowing that his workload has nearly doubled since Strauss died. He had called her well into the night on his timezone, searching for company as she was on her lunch break. She had been pleasantly surprised by the call, being regaled with tales of Jack in between her file appraisals and his complaints about the mountain of paperwork the Director dropped on his desk.

But when she still hears the monotone voice of his pre-recorded greeting when she tries to call later in the day, she begins to worry.

It was unlike him to not shoot her a text that he was busy, promising to contact her at a more convenient time.

There’s a dark pit that grows in her stomach with each passing hour that he doesn’t call.

--

Dave is the one who breaks the news to her.

A bolt of fear passes through her when she sees Dave’s name flash across the screen.

No.

She answers on the second ring, a breathless hello as Dave greets her, a heaviness in his voice that she notes in an instant.

“Dave, what’s wrong?” She asks, not bothering to beat around the bush.

“It’s Aaron.”

He gives her a rundown of their morning, her heart in her throat as Dave relays the details. Aaron had collapsed during a briefing and they rushed him to the hospital. Internal bleeding, thought to be caused by old wounds inflicted by Foyet’s knife that were reopened.

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“Which hospital?” She prompts, already creating a to-do list in her head of all the things that she needed to make sure were buttoned up before she got on a plane.

“Emily, that’s insane.” Dave says, probably already aware of what she was planning to do and she knows. She knows that it’s crazy.

But she’s suddenly reminded of that day at the bank, when he offered himself as the sacrificial lamb to save lives.

It was that uncontrollable itch that rattled underneath her skin, tearing at the fibers in her muscles as she struggled in Morgan’s strong grip while he walked right into her greatest fear.

She needed to be with him and nothing was going to stop her from doing just that.

“Text me which hospital or I’m going to call Penelope and find out for myself.” She hangs up the phone, ending Dave’s protest mid-sentence.

She books the next flight out.

--

She can’t explain to him why she has to leave, why she books the first flight that she could despite the absurd amount of money it had cost and the two or more layovers she would have to contend with. She doesn’t even tell Clyde in person, opting to call him and explain instead of taking the time to head to his office, knowing that every second here was another one wasted without him.

“Aaron? Your ex?” Mark asks in disbelief, following her around her apartment as she pulls out her suitcase. He’s pacing behind her, begging for attention but all she can focus on is the panic in Dave’s voice, laced in a pessimism when he relayed the details of Aaron’s condition.

“Mark, I need to go.” She says stiffly, shoving clothes as quickly as she can into her suitcase. There was one seat on a flight that left in two hours - there was no chance that she was going to miss it.

“You’re on the phone with him all the time. His son calls you in the middle of the night. For Christ’s sake, you’re leaving in two hours to fly all the way back to the States .” Mark almost yells and she flinches, absorbing the anger in his voice. She deserved this. She didn’t deserve the understanding, gentle Mark that she had known for all of their relationship.

She was wondering how much he could take before she broke him too.

“Emily, if you leave, I’m not coming back.”

There is a finality in his tone, the end of a sentence she thinks that she shouldn’t have written in the first place.

At his ultimatum, her eyes widen at the realization that she’s shielded from herself for so long. A truth that she had attempted to put into a cardboard box, shoved in the back of her closet, only to be revisited as a taste of light in her darkest of moments.

There was going to be no one like them. No one who would feel as close to home as they felt to her - the safety that Aaron’s arms provide, the pure joy that radiates from Jack, how complete she felt when she was with them.

Doyle had made her afraid, so afraid of losing them that she thought she would sever the connection before someone else had the chance to. At least she could wrap her mind around it, prepare herself for the brutal blow that threatened to tear out her insides at the simple thought of losing them. She could live apart from them if she knew that it was for their own safety.

But there could be any number of things that could take them away from her. It could be an accident, an unsub, or old scars that burst after years of dormancy. She would rather be there with them than 3,000 miles away.

She’d go as far as she needed to.

“Goodbye, Mark.”

She lets the front door close behind her, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she focuses on only one thing.

Going back home.

--

[bonesofapoet]

Hey! For the buzzfeed asks can I get "Well if it sounds like a duck and walks like a duck" for.... any batboy you want?

Car Crash Hearts

[dick grayson x you]

author’s note: i not only want to thank you for requesting but for giving me a reason to finally start writing for dick!! i just...love him sm. i hope you enjoy this little ‘oh no i think my cute neighbor is the local vigilante’ thing!! blood/injury, language

word count: 909

Seasons were a fickle thing.

Everything about your part of the world insisted it was autumn. The new month had just arrived in time for that first peek of winter that waited around the corner with impatient bliss. Chills tainted the breeze that carried leaves through the streets. It threatened to turn your breath into a cloud you could touch with your bare hands.

As it happened, summer decided to breathe one last warm kiss goodbye into your lungs to hold you through the dark season. A dramatic goodbye, for a dramatic season.

It was a Wednesday, but it was unseasonably warm. A thunderstorm rolled in during the night, blanketed the city in soft gray clouds and sprinkled rain that was more inconvenient than it was ruination. Low, distant rumbles of thunder slipped through closed windows. Lightning flashed across the sky leaving ghostly patterns behind eyelids and flickered awe into imaginations.

Rainfall was still singing steadily into the night after drizzling through the day. Rumbling thunder grew bolder as the sky grew darker, and the hour grew later. A well timed clap and an eerie flash almost covered the thump from the hallway, almost hid the sound of a door slamming shut next door.

Seasons were a fickle thing. And so, it seemed, were neighbors.

Strange.

You’d never heard anything from that side of your apartment before. He was always quiet, kept odd hours and chose not to make friends despite being friendly. That was fair, you realized; not many people were willing to talk to strangers these days. Even you tried to keep your head down every once and a-

Oh.

That wasn’t thunder that sounded beyond your wall.

Incredibly strange.

Without really thinking, your knuckles collided with the worn wooden door of apartment 304. You waited for it to open, shifted your weight in anticipation.

When it did, you were met with the blue eyes of – Dick Grayson, you remembered. You had met him only a handful of times before: the classic arriving and departing around the same time, even asking him for a quick hand every once and a while. Your conversations were never lengthy, never very personal beyond the offhand exchange of names and terrible small talk. They weren’t memorable, but Dick Grayson seemed to be a warm personality, and that was . . . comforting, in this town that thrived on blood and shadows.

He stood in front of you, door held tight to his side. Dick Grayson seemed a little on edge, his own thunderstorm seethed behind those kind eyes, and – was he starting to get a black eye?

“Is uh, everything all right? I heard you over the storm-” you gestured to your own place, a mere thirteen feet away. “-and sometimes I forget anyone even lives here, so.”

Your name fell through his lips then, an apology laced within his tone when the recognition burned bright in his expression. Dick Grayson relaxed just enough for you to notice, loosened his grip on the door just enough to be casual.  You’re in 306.

Yeah, you replied. You’re not dying are you?

A smile lit up his face – lit up the dull hallway made darker by the hour too, actually – and a quiet laugh tumbled through his chest. It seemed. . . practiced, almost, but that didn’t stop your stomach from doing a flip. Then another. You smiled back, because god his was contagious, genuine or otherwise.

“No,” he said, smile lingering. “You’re stuck with me a little bit longer.”

You breathed a laugh, and Dick’s grip on the doorknob tightened. He pushed down the warmth that swelled through his chest, that hugged his heart close and tight.

“Well aren’t I the lucky one?” your tone teased, bright over the lurking gloom of the storm that raged beyond the brick and glass. You heard the screaming wind beyond the threshold Dick seemed to guard with his life, but you weren’t going to pry. “I’ll get out of your hair then. I’ll um, see you around?”

“Yeah,” he answered, then apologized for the noise. “Enjoy your-”

“Dick – you’re bleeding.”

Like a blooming nocturnal flower, a bud of shocking crimson begun to unfurl through the grey cotton. The petals opened up and up, slowly and slowly breaking free from their cage to breathe in the fresh air, the petrichor, the concern that started to rise within you.

He’s fine, my ass.

Dick Grayson followed your gaze, and immediately begun damage control. Excuses, cover stories, reassurances.

That wasn’t your first rodeo.

“Well if it sounds like a duck and walks like a duck. . .” a vicious crack of thunder drowned out your dig. The windows in Dick’s apartment rattled.

He sympathized, because he could tell you weren’t buying a single thing he was saying. He tuned out the pain of split stitches.

“I live in Blüdhaven, Dick. I’ve seen some shit, you know? You don’t get an injury like that from a regular bar fight.” your eyes were wide, tone grew a little more frantic than you intended. Your attention split itself between the spreading stain and the look that grew on his injured face.

You took a breath. Then another. Dick was about to speak, until you noticed one more thing. “And you might want to hide that fancy blue kevlar a little better when you answer the door.”

Dick Grayson, who wore charm and charisma like a second skin, sputtered.

“What the fuck.”

[sohotthateveryonedied]

We Dream in the Dark, for the Most Part

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Jason is in the middle of lathering his hair with shampoo when suddenly the lights go out, leaving him in darkness. An instinctive chill runs down his spine, only to be replaced with annoyance. Of course. Beyond the shower spray, he can hear Lian shriek in fear, followed by Roy muttering curses.

Jason sighs. “Roy?” he calls.

“Handling it!”

It was a grueling patrol, but Jason is relieved to be home. He missed having Roy by his side tonight, but their usual babysitter, Mrs. Peterson from next door, came down with pneumonia yesterday and canceled. She doesn’t seem to have any idea that her neighbors are vigilantes, but they pay her enough that she doesn’t ask. Lian is coloring at the coffee table while Jason toes off his boots, leaving them at the front door. She’s wearing her fluffy Stitch pajamas, which she’s been practically living in for the last week and a half. “Hey, princess.” Jason drops a kiss on top of her head as he passes. “Where’s your dad?” “In the kitchen. He’s playing with the electricity again.” “Oh, good. Because, you know, I was actually hoping our place would explode, just to spice things up.” Lian giggles. “Has he fed you yet?” She shakes her head, her black pigtails swinging back and forth. “Nope. But he promised me special sushi if I cleaned up all my books.” Jason will never understand Lian’s passion for her “special sushi,” which is just deli ham slathered in strawberry yogurt and rolled up like a spring roll from hell. Jason gets nauseated just thinking about it, but the kid loves the stuff. “And did you clean up?” Lian points over at the bookshelf against the wall. They don’t have a huge apartment by any means, but Jason insisted on dedicating an entire wall to his books. That was one of the conditions when Roy first asked Jason to move in with him and Lian. It took weeks of finagling to convince Jason to relinquish a small section of the bookshelf for Lian’s picture books, which are indeed all in their right places. “Then it looks like you’ve earned your sushi, little miss. I’m gonna shower first and then I’ll make it for you, alright?” “I can make it by myself.” Jason snorts. “After what happened last time? I don’t think so.” It was his own fault for thinking a five-year-old could prepare her own food. It took a solid hour to scrub the yogurt stains out of the carpet. Jason pokes his head in the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. “Tell me you’re not burning the building down.” “Okay, then I’m not burning the building down,” Roy says around the screwdriver trapped between his teeth. He stands in front of what was once a light switch, tinkering with something that he most definitely should not be tinkering with, but Jason is picking his battles today.

“I’m not going to bother telling you that you’re on your second strike with the landlord. If he has to come up here again, I’m not defending you.” “You know what I miss? The old days when people would greet each other by saying things like, ‘hi, sweetie, how was your day?’ ‘Oh, it was lovely, darling. How about a kiss after spending hours apart and missing each other dearly?’ ‘Babe, it’s like you read my mind!’ You know, stuff like that?” Jason arches an eyebrow. “I’ve got mobster blood caked in my hair. Still want a hello kiss?” “Not really, no. Go shower.” “Try not to blow a fuse in the meantime, please.” Roy salutes with his screwdriver. “Aye, aye, captain.” Jason goes to the bathroom and relishes in the feeling of peeling off his armor and the bodysuit underneath, every layer soaked with sweat and blood. It’s a good thing his Red Hood getup is all dark colors, or he’d have scarred Lian for life ten times over already. He turns the shower knob as hot as it’ll go, letting his muscles slowly unravel under the spray. He takes his time scrubbing off the blood and dirt, whistling some shitty pop song that Dick paid Barbara to blast through the comms all. Night. Long. Jason has plans to add that to his repertoire of torture techniques if he ever needs some extra edge. It’s definitely effective. Jason is in the middle of lathering his hair with shampoo when suddenly the lights go out, leaving him in darkness. An instinctive chill runs down his spine, only to be replaced with annoyance. Of course. Beyond the shower spray, he can hear Lian shriek in fear, followed by Roy muttering curses. Jason sighs. “Roy?” he calls. “Handling it!” Another sigh. This is what he gets for leaving Roy alone. It’s Jason’s own fault, really. He quickly rinses the shampoo from his hair and leaves the bathroom, and towel wrapped around his waist. He navigates the pitch black apartment and finds Roy lighting a match in the kitchen. He’s got Lian tucked in one arm. “What did I say?” Jason asks. “I know, I know—” “I said not to blow a fuse. That was your one job.” “Technically, I didn’t blow a fuse. I just overloaded the circuit and cut off the electricity for the whole building.” Jason smacks himself in the forehead. “Wonderful.” Remind him again why he’s in love with this man? “I’m sure it’ll be fixed in no time.” “You can’t see it, but I’m rolling my eyes.” “You’re overreacting. It’s just a little blackout.” “We have ice cream in the freezer.” “I’ll buy more.” Jason runs a hand through his wet hair. “You’re killing me, babe. Again.” “It’s just one night without power, right? I’m sure it’ll come back on in the morning.” He bounces Lian a little, who’s got her face buried in Roy’s neck. Poor thing is terrified of the dark. “What do you think, pumpkin? You think you can be brave for one little night in the dark?” “I don’t like it. It’s scary.” “I know it is, sweetheart. But do you want to know a secret?” He leans in close to her ear, mock-whispering, “Jaybird over here is afraid of the dark too.” Lian looks at Jason with wide eyes. “Really?” Roy nods. “Yep. But you know what? He’s so brave and strong that he overcame that fear and now it hardly bothers him anymore. Do you think you can be brave like that?” “I can be super brave.” “That’s my girl. Not, sit here for a minute, ‘kay?” He sets her down on the arm of the sofa. The match has fizzled out by now, leaving them in complete darkness. “I know I have some scented candles around here somewhere. Dinah keeps getting them as gifts and pushes them on me when she doesn’t like them.” Jason’s eyes widen. “Wait, watch out for the—” Roy trips with a shout, glass shattering as he falls. “—coffee table.” Roy just groans in response. “Hang on, let me get a light.” Jason makes his way to the drawer they keep the emergency flashlight in. He turns on the beam to show Roy on the floor, surrounded by glass shards and clutching his leg. There are several small cuts peppering his knee like he crawled on a beach made of broken bottles. Jason gasps. “Oh my god, Roy! You broke Lian’s crayons!” Roy flips him off, angling his hand so Lian can’t see. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Jason helps him up and hands him the flashlight. “Lian, honey, will you help him get to the couch? I need to put some clothes on.” And he’s almost positive there’s another flashlight somewhere in Roy’s nightstand. They’re going to need all the light they can get. Jason gets dressed and retrieves the flashlight, plus one of Lian’s Disney princess glow sticks. When he returns, Roy is on the couch with his leg propped up on what remains of their coffee table. Lian is shining the flashlight on her tiny first-aid kit which Kori gave her last Christmas. She sifts through her collection of band-aids. “One to ten?” “Barely a two,” Roy says. “I already dug the glass out, and none were deep enough to need stitches.” Jason checks him over anyway, just to be sure. He wipes away the blood and applies some ointment over the cuts. He turns to Lian when he’s finished. “Can I trust you to finish this up while I make dinner?” She nods enthusiastically. Perfect. Lian can keep herself busy plastering Roy in Hello Kitty bandages, and Jason will have time to figure out what the hell they’re doing, food-wise. “How do you expect to make dinner without electricity?” Roy asks, reading his mind yet again. “What, did you never have to eat cold leftover pizza in your million-dollar mansion growing up? Weird.” He dodges the pillow Roy throws his way, laughing. “Those jokes don’t count when you also grew up in a million-dollar mansion.” Thirty minutes later and the three of them are sitting on the couch, Roy and Jason eating cold mushroom casserole while Lian enjoys her ham and yogurt. Once you get over the temperature difference, cold casserole turns out to be just as tasty as hot casserole. Gordon Ramsey should take notes. Jason managed to track down the candles Roy was talking about earlier and set them in various places around the living room, lighting the room in a dim glow. It’s not perfect lighting by any means—not even good lighting, really, but at least no one will be falling into another coffee table anytime soon. Roy’s knee is covered in Hello Kitty band-aids, some of which are in spots that weren’t even cut up by the glass. Roy doesn’t seem to mind. Jason took a picture for potential blackmail reasons. “I’m bored,” Lian says after a while. “You could always go to bed,” Roy suggests, “given that your bedtime was fifteen minutes ago but your daddies are nice enough to let you stay up this long.” “That was nice of us,” Jason agrees. “I think we’ve earned a quiet night to ourselves.” Lian pouts. She grabs Jason’s arm, clinging to his bicep like a koala. “But it’s dark in my room.” “It’s dark in there every night.” “It’s really dark tonight. Can I stay here with you instead?” Her eyes are big and innocent, perfectly disguising the mischief lurking within. This girl could be a successful con artist one day. (Not that Jason or Roy will ever let that happen. She’s going to grow up and become a veterinarian or something equally harmless.) Roy and Jason meet eyes, having a silent conversation over Lian’s head. Finally, Roy sighs. “Fine. You can stay up with us a little longer, but only because of the blackout, okay? Don’t go thinking that this trick is going to work tomorrow night.” Lian claps her hands, bouncing in her seat. “Can I have coffee?” “Absolutely not.” She isn’t deterred in the slightest. “This is gonna be so fun! We can stay up all night long, even past midnight and three o’clock which is when the ghosts come out.” “Ghosts, huh?” Jason says. “Yeah, Aunt Stephanie told me all about it! Three o’clock is when the witching hour happens and witches and ghosts come out like Bloody Mary and Freddie Cougar and they call come into your house and walk around but you can only see them if you’re awake, which I’m gonna be because I’m not even tired, I could stay up all night long and for a million, bazillion years, and—” She lasts seven minutes. Lian is fast asleep now with her head in Roy’s lap, her tiny feet dangling off the arm of the sofa. Jason drapes a blanket over her, kissing her on the forehead. He’s careful not to jostle Roy’s bandaged leg as he takes a seat beside him, putting his arm around Roy’s shoulders. “Well, I’m fucking exhausted.” “It’s cool if you want to go to bed,” Roy says. “I don’t mind sticking around here with Lian until the power comes back on.” “Nah, it’s fine. I like it better in here, anyway.” In here, where the light is. Roy doesn’t comment on the hidden meaning that he definitely catches on to, and Jason loves him for it. He just kisses Jason’s cheek, settling against his side. Jason doesn’t mention the darkness thing often. Or at all. After all, grown men don’t get scared of the dark—especially when they live in a place like Gotham and were raised in a literal cave. But if Lian insists on having the hallway light on in addition to the night light next to her bed, then Jason isn’t about to discourage her. Roy never says a word about it. Every night he keeps the door to his and Jason’s bedroom cracked open just enough so a sliver of hallway light floods in, and it’s good for both of them, really. Jason feels safer with the light on, and they both feel safer being able to hear every creak and draft in the apartment, falling asleep knowing that nothing will sneak up on them. Even when Jason was living on his own, post-resurrection, he always kept a lamp on when he went to sleep in whichever safehouse he was squatting in that night. Back before he had a place to call home. On especially bad nights, he would turn on the lights in every single room, even the one in the microwave. Only then could he sleep soundly. He can’t exactly do that now, but he doesn’t need to. Whenever his head gets too heavy to bear, he’ll simply wrap his arms around Roy and fall back asleep to the sound of Roy’s heart beating under his ear. He falls back asleep in minutes. Jason isn’t entirely sure what caused the light issue in the first place. Sometimes he can’t remember if it arose before or after he was adopted by Bruce. Other times he’s sure it’s lingering trauma from the coffin, from waking up in pitch blackness six feet underground. No bearings, no sense of what was happening or where he was. The only thing in there with him was the thick, cloying darkness on every side of him. Jason shivers just thinking about it. “We should get her a new night light,” he says. “Battery powered, not a plug-in. It would be a good investment if you ever try destroying our electricity again.” Roy hums. “We can pick one up tomorrow. I need to take her clothes shopping anyway. And it might be a good idea to have a couple for the living room and bathroom so we don’t have a repeat of tonight.” “Good idea.” God, Jason’s craving a cigarette right now. Every nerve in his body urges him to get one and soothe the anxiety buzzing in his brain, but he has a rule against smoking in the apartment or anywhere near Lian. He’d settle for a beer instead, whatever keeps the buzzing at bay, but he doesn’t drink at home either out of respect for Roy’s sobriety. He’s stuck. Roy must notice Jason’s twitching fingers because he reaches into his pocket, careful not to wake Lian as he pulls out a stick of nicotine gum. “Here.” Jason unwraps the gum and shoves it in his mouth. He takes a deep breath in as he chews, letting it out slowly. It takes the edge off some, but not completely. Still, it’s better than nothing. “You’re just carrying these on you now?” "Came in handy, didn't it?" “And I thought Bruce was the king of being prepared for everything.” Jason straightens the wrapper until it’s flat like a card. He holds it over the nearest candle until it catches, watching the flame consume the paper, eating away at its edges. He blows it out just before it gets too close to his fingers. “When I was a kid,” he says after a minute, “my mom and I used to light candles like these. The heat would get turned off pretty often since she was usually too high to remember what day it was, let alone when the bills needed to be paid. But whenever it happened, she would send me to the store with a couple dollars and I’d buy a bag of marshmallows. We’d roast them over the candles and pretend we were camping.” “That sounds nice.” “It was. I mean, now I realize that it’s actually really fucking sad that we had to resort to candles ‘cause my mom wasted all her cash on drugs and couldn’t pay the heating bill. But at the time, it was nice. It’s one of the few good memories I have of that time.” He feels more than sees Roy’s fingers lacing through his own, clasping their hands together. “I was telling the truth earlier, you know. You’re brave and strong and badass all the way.” Jason snorts. “Even if I get freaked out every time the lights go out?” Roy doesn’t laugh with him. “Yeah, even then. And you know why?” He rests his head on Jason’s shoulder, lets Jason feel his warmth. “Because of all the things to be afraid of, you picked the one that can be fixed by just turning the lights on. Once you do that, there’s nothing left in the world that can scare you. And that’s pretty damn badass if you ask me.”

[laurelsofhighever]

Just the Place

Have a piece of Alistair x Cousland fluff! This is pre-relationship, set between chapters 26 and 27 of my longfic, The Falcon and the Rose, so minor spoilers I guess? It’s not much to worry about. Just a day out escaping the pressures of nobility and skipping stones

--

Alistair should have known better than to think a night’s rest against even the fluffiest of pillows would inure him to the uneasy feeling that had settled in his stomach the day before when he had first caught sight of Redcliffe’s keep through the trees. It was a place too familiar, too full of memories, of people who had known him before his title and even before he had made a name for himself under Teagan’s instruction, and before the sun had even poked above the hills he was driven from panicky dreams where Isolde laughed with the golden eyes of a witch. The connection his slumbering mind made to Flemeth unnerved him, enough that his valet remarked on his taciturn expression as he was handed his clothes to dress for the day.

Too queasy for breakfast, and unwilling to see the wariness and resentment in the faces of the servants who had once considered him little better than dirt, he took the guard route along the wall and down into the courtyard, thinking to head towards the stables. Master Dennet, Eamon’s horsemaster, met him with a nod of recognition but nothing more. Of all the people Alistair had known in his old life, Dennet alone had never bothered with propriety, or speculated about just whose bastard he was.

“Got no room for gawkers, Your Highness. Their Graces don’t much like being kept waiting for their breakfasts.”

“I’ll give you some help, if you like,” he offered, and got only a shrug in return. Still, it felt good to do honest labour, to use his hands for something other than swordwork or practicing his letters, and the friendly bumps the horses gave him as he doled out their morning feed made him smile.

Once they were all munching away, however, their contentment infectious and the quiet of their presence soothing, it only made him more reluctant to squeeze himself in between Cailan’s forced cheeriness, Isolde’s piqued formality, and Baudrillard’s determination to be a sycophant. Perhaps he should go to the village. It was unlikely he would receive much of a reception there, but as he stepped out from the gallery and through the gate in the curtain wall, the pre-dawn chill had already started to dissipate, the sky clear blue and cloudless. Birds would be singing among the trees, while the breeze that blew in off Lake Calenhad during every summer would keep the heat from growing truly unbearable. Sneaking a few hours of freedom couldn’t hurt, surely.

A thunderous bark stopped him in his tracks as he was walking under the shadow of the barbican. He turned just in time to stop himself go flying as a large brindle mass collided with his legs, with a rich echo of laughter following on behind. Cuno chuffed and turned to sit on Alistair’s foot so he would have better access for a scratch to the shoulder, his wide doggy grin and lolling tongue betraying his delight in the attention.

“Aw, who’s a good boy?” Alistair asked him. “Have you been for a walk?”

“We were just about to go on one.”

He looked up to find Rosslyn smiling fondness at her dog, with all traces of the previous days’ journeying scrubbed from her features and her usual attire traded out in favour of longer, more formal split skirts. Her gaze, when she raised it to meet his eye, skittered away in a blush and a self-conscious move to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

He swallowed. “Good morning.”

“And to you, Your Highness,” she replied, with the note of mirth she reserved these days for the times they could not forebear an audience.

Alistair’s mind stumbled on how to keep the conversation going. He wanted to, but he had been careful to avoid thinking about her at all since waking, since their parting the night before and the hours afterward while the memories lingered, denying him rest. The skin of her hand had been so soft under his fingertips, and he had focused entirely too much on the hushed part of her lips as he had pressed a kiss across her knuckles. He had wondered, in the darkness, what she had been thinking in the moment, whether she would chastise him on their next meeting once the shock of his forwardness had worn off. Now she stood before him, still smiling – not trying to run him through – he decided to take it as encouragement, or at least approval.

The guard on the gate coughed, and he blinked.

“I didn’t expect to see you so early, Your Ladyship,” he said, trying to ignore the sudden flare in his cheeks. “I hope you slept well?”

She nodded. “Arlessa Isolde is very generous in her duties as a hostess – I’ve wanted for nothing.” The wry smile faded. “I went looking for you, actually – to tell you the army won’t be arriving until this afternoon.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you missed me.” Of its own accord, his hand reached up to run through his hair, his mind preoccupied with deciding if it would be a step too far to admit the real reason he had gone to the stables and all but lurked there until it became weird. Helpless, he gestured to the broad stretch of the road beyond the gates. “Just thought I’d stretch my legs, you know how it is.”

“You’re going without an escort?” she teased.

“Only to the village! And it’s not like I’m unarmed.” He tapped the sword hilted at his side, and smirked. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you come with me? You’re practically an army unto yourself, after all. I could… show you the village? If you’re not already busy, of course.”

She smirked. “A chance to see all your old haunts? Cuno would enjoy the exercise, I suppose.”

The dog gave an excited bark.

“That decides it – shall we?”

They stayed comfortably close but did not touch as they followed the road that wound from the top of the hill down to the village nestled at its base, passing idle conversation back and forth as Cuno trotted ahead with his nose to the ground and then came galloping back to chide them for being so slow to catch up. The day rose with birdsong and dappled sunlight, and Alistair had to keep forcing his eyes back to the road ahead. Rosslyn clearly noticed; she kept peering at him strangely whenever he caught his eyes lingering too long, but didn’t comment, and he was grateful. Though the bite in them could last against such a bright day, Flemeth’s warning still preyed on his mind, worse for the truth he saw in it.

When they rounded the last bend and the first buildings of Redcliffe came into view, the windmill on the stream’s edge and the pub leaning its gables over the road, they stopped for a moment to take in the view.

“Did you miss it?” Rosslyn’s voice was quiet.

“Would it make me a bad person if I said I didn’t?” he shrugged. “I guess I must have been happy sometimes, but I don’t remember much. The revered mother was always kind to me. And Arl Eamon did look after me.”

He noticed the way her lips thinned at that, true thoughts held back for politeness’ sake. To cover, he cleared his throat and looked out over the tiny collection of buildings that had once been the farthest reaches of the world.

“What do you want to see?” he asked. “There’s the chantry, the smithy, the docks – it’s not market day so there won’t be much to see in the square, but maybe –”

“Where do you want to go?” She had linked her arm through his, bringing her face close enough, tilted up at him, that if he were to just lean forward…

“Um.” He turned away. Through the fog in his mind, he tried to work on the problem, to think of something that might hold her interest somewhere where they wouldn’t be fodder for the gossipmongers. “I know just the place.”

With a grin, he slid his hand into hers and stepped off the path to lead her down away from the village. Curiosity lit in her grey eyes as he glanced back to make sure she was alright, the dog at her heels brushing past to scout out the trail ahead. Over the years the vegetation had crowded in and frost-cracked boulders had broken from the cliff above, leaving only narrow deer tracks winding through the trees. He couldn’t really get lost, but more than once they had to double back when the questing branches of saplings condensed into thickets rife with brambles.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” Rosslyn laughed when the ground finally levelled out beneath them. The path was wider here, more distinct, and he recognised the craggy face of the rock ahead, cut into the likeness of a horse’s head by the accidental work of time and weather.

He turned back and grinned. “Not much further.”

The last step was a steep climb down a narrow gully carpeted with old leaves, and a two-foot drop down a bank dotted with blue vetch and embrium. Cuno had already raced ahead and found the water, and was splashing through the curling edge of the small waves that washed over the shore.

“Well, what do you think?” Alistair asked as they made the final jump. “Do you like it?”

“It’s… Alistair, it’s beautiful.”

He beamed. The narrow strip of pebbled beach bled into sand towards the water’s edge, overhung with lush greenery that filtered the sunlight and offered hiding spots for the birds flitting along on their own business. Instead of the stink of fishguts that pervaded the village docks in high summer, here the scents of clean water and wildflowers filled the nose. A breeze stirred against his face and when he looked he found Rosslyn had turned her face into it and closed her eyes, a smile playing about her mouth. Their hands were still joined.

He ought to say something. Explain.

“I went exploring a lot. Being raised by dogs, you get a lot of slobbery love, but they’re not big on the child supervision. And sometimes the castle could get…” He had wanted to get away from thoughts of the castle, so he reached down and plucked a round, flat rock from the ground at his feet. “I used to spend hours skipping stones.”

“What’s your record?” she asked.

“Twelve.”

“Impressive.”

He tried to pout. “You can do better, can you?”

“Alistair, I grew up by the sea.” There was the flash of a smile as she let go of his hand and stooped to find a rock of her own. “I can certainly try.”

“Care to wager, dear lady?” he teased, to cover his disappointment.

With a lift of her chin, she closed the space, spinning the stone between her fingers as she weighed the challenge, but even though he tried to meet her gaze, he faltered when her tongue poked out to wet her lips.

“A drink in the tavern?” she suggested.

He managed to nod. “That sounds reasonable.”

Satisfied, she wheeled to face the water and took up a stance just shy of the waterline, wrist poised with the edge of the stone pressed against the tip of her first finger, but as she drew her arm back Cuno trotted over and butted his nose in polite enquiry against her hand, in case the stone was really just a treat for him.

“You know, it’s cheating if you wait so long I don’t even get a turn,” Alistair pointed out.

“So is distracting your opponent.”

“Are you being distracted by little old me?”

She merely rolled her eyes. A moment later, the dog went charging into the water after her cast stone, a great plume of white spray rising around him until he stood chest deep in confusion, trying to work out where his prize had gone. It made nine skips before being caught in the lap of a wave and sinking to the bottom.

“I do believe your technique is looking a little rusty, Lady Cousland.”

“Is my technique what you were looking at?” she asked lightly.

Alistair’s ears burned, but he ignored the flutter in his stomach as he stepped up next to her. “Among other things.”

He watched her reaction only long enough to make sure he hadn’t taken the comment too far, then let his stone loose with a flick of his wrist. Ten skips. When he glanced back, she was fighting to contain a grin.

“Well we can’t just go by a single result,” she said, as if it were unthinkable.

He laughed. “Perish the thought.”

Still smiling together, they turned aside to search for more stones. Most weren’t suitable, either too large or too thick or not circular enough, and so after a while the game became less about skipping than remarking on ones with interesting shapes or patterns, and throwing them for Cuno to hunt through the water.

“Alright, last one,” Rosslyn decided, lining up one final shot as the climbing sun loomed down almost directly overhead.

Alistair stepped close, one hand going to steady her lower back. “Go for it.”

She cast, and got fourteen.

“It looks like you win.”

“I don’t think I want to leave just yet,” she admitted, without moving away. “It’s nice here. The view is wonderfully free of Orlesians.”

“I always thought so – it does add to the charm.” He glanced further up the beach. “We could sit?”

Nodding, she followed him a little way to a bleached log that must have been deposited during a winter storm at some point after he had gone to Rainesfere, and together they made themselves comfortable against it. In the silence, the world surrounded them, the sound and smell of water and the slight dig of hard-edged stones against the backside.

“Is everything alright?” Alistair asked after a while.

“Hm?” Rosslyn blinked away from her contemplation of the horizon and sighed. “I was just thinking. This place reminds me of home a little. It’s not quite the same, but it feels familiar.” With a pink stain blossoming in her face, she ducked her head away. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Her hand lay between them on the shingle.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he told her. “I… you should get to be happy.”

The softness in her gaze nearly undid him, but then she dropped it to where his fingers had found courage to curl around hers, and his breath stilled in his chest as she pulled his hand into her lap, as her thumb stroked over his knuckles. She opened her mouth and drew in a breath. He waited, only for her to sigh again and shake her head in a self-defeated huff of laughter, and settle her cheek against his shoulder.

[lloydskywalkers]

skywalker syndrome, pt. II

*sweats nervously* this is...so long. This is so, so long and it’s not even the last part, but i just have a loT OF FEELINGS about it okay T-T 

Anyways! here is the continuation of my extensively angsty, s9-Lloyd-loses-an-arm-AU that i posted about a year ago, now featuring four whole over-concerned siblings who are finally back in the same realm. 

The funny thing about life as a ninja extraordinaire, is that there are certain things that you can totally suppress, and never deal with ever. Like, they might still be there, lurking in the dark corners of your mind like vaguely threatening mold or something, and sure, one of these days they could blossom into actual issues, and then threaten to destabilize whatever’s left of your emotional stability, but you can at least ignore them for a while. And if you’re Lloyd —which he is — you can get really good at ignoring them, to the point where you almost forget they’re there half the time. Bam, problems solved.

But as it turns out, unfortunately, there are also some things that you just can’t.

One of those, even more unfortunately, happens to be losing, say, an entire limb. And to top off the entire stack of unfortunateness — the unfortunatetest — most unfortunate? — part about the whole thing: Lloyd currently happens to fall into the second category.

(Will always fall into the second category, he doesn’t know why he’s saying currently, it’s not like his arm is gonna grow back—)

Anyways. Lloyd has finally met an issue that he can’t ignore, and that’s…another issue, he guesses. Oh, he’s tried, but walking off a lost arm is just a lot more difficult than ignoring trauma, or a broken rib or something.

“But I mean, it also could have been a leg, and then I’d have real trouble walking it off, haha, get it?”

“There are so many concerning things in that essay’s worth of words you just threw at me, I don’t even know where to start,” Nya sighs.

“Aw, c’mon,” Lloyd nudges her shoulder with his fist from where he sits in the battle wagon next to her, metal fingers clanking oddly against her shoulder armor. “That wasn’t even my worst pun.”

“That’s not what I’m referring to, and you know it,” Nya side-eyes him. Then, after a beat— “And that one was low-hanging fruit. I know you can do better.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll come up with something better when we’re not running on zero hours of sleep,” Lloyd yawns, propping his elbows up on the dashboard and leaning against them, scrubbing at his eyes. He flinches back at the cold of his metal hand, and scowls at it instead, as if its inability to create heat like a normal limb is a personal insult. He lets it fall limp against the dashboard with a dull clank, laying his normal, warm human arm on top, and using that as a pillow.

He then squeezes his eyes shut, enjoying the brief relief from the thundering headache he’s had the last few days, before screwing them back open. Nya is staring at him fully now, face pinched in concern. Lloyd thinks that’s rather unfair, because her eyes are every bit as bloodshot as his, and he’s definitely caught her wincing from a headache of her own like, six times today already.

“Lloyd.”

“What.”

Nya sighs again — she’s been doing that a lot lately — and finally takes her hands off the wheel, leaning back in her seat, pulling her leg up and wrapping her arm around her knee. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?” Lloyd says petulantly, knowing full well what she’s talking about.

Nya knows too, because she gives him a look. “Ignore that kind of stuff,” she says, waving a hand absently in the air. “Trauma, and whatnot.”

“I’m not ignoring my trauma,” Lloyd rolls his eyes, because they’ve had this conversation a minimum of sixty times now, so he’s ready for it. “I’m just waiting until I have a thing of ice cream big enough to cry it all out over.”

He’s probably going to need an entire ice cream parlor at this point, he muses—

“I’m serious, Lloyd.”

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, burying his face in his arms. “Sure. You wanna talk about Nadakhan while we’re at it, then?”

Nya sucks in a breath, and Lloyd feels a hot flash of guilt for having brought it up.

But like — it’s true. If he’s gotta sort out his issues, then Nya needs to, as well. Fair’s fair, and she needs someone looking out for her. Even if Lloyd’s been doing a pretty terrible job of it lately.

“Sorry,” he murmurs anyways.

Nya presses her lips together, then shakes her head. Her eyes are far away, staring out across the ruined city through the windshield. “No,” she says, her voice a whisper. “No, you’re right. I — you’re right.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that, too.”

Because he wishes he wasn’t right. He’d love to be wrong, about this. He’d love it if they were all just fine, and the guys were back and cracking jokes with them, and Nya had never died after being nearly forced into some twisted marriage, and the city wasn’t crumbling down around them because his sort-of-ex brought back his dead dad, and Lloyd still had both whole arms, and they were all drinking like, strawberry lemonade on the beach right now or something.

“We’re a real mess, huh,” Nya says, and there’s a sniffled edge in her voice that Lloyd doesn’t like.

Lloyd bites his lip, then reaches out, uncurling her fingers from where they’ve gone white around the steering wheel, and squeezing her hand lightly instead. “Kai would say we’re hot messes, though.”

Nya snorts, squeezing his hand back, ad Lloyd feels a bubble of warmth at her smile. They sit there in silence for a bit, watching the smokey clouds drift past above, waiting on Pixal or Skylor to finally call in on the radio, and tell them they can move out already.

Lloyd’s just considering trying for another nap, when Nya speaks up again.

“Really through. Lloyd, we gotta talk it all out eventually. You don’t wanna end up all emotionally suppressed, like your uncle, do you?”

Lloyd sputters, then glares at her. “You take that back. I’m not gonna end up like Uncle Wu.”

“Oh yeah? Just wait, any day now you’re gonna walk in on us, with a big straw hat on, and say ‘terribly sorry, my loyal ninja, but there’s something I haven’t told you’—“

Lloyd throws his mask at her, even as he breaks into snickers at the deep-toned voice she’s using. “I am not!”

“—you’ll have a beard, too,” Nya continues, grinning. “Like, ten feet long—“

“Ten, please, have you seen my hair? I bet I can do twenty—“

“Oh yeah, Rapunzel? What’cha gonna do then, trip over it into your enemies?”

“No, I’m — I’m gonna strangle them with it.”

That mental image is the final straw for Nya, and she doubles over in loud cackling, stuffing her fist against her mouth to try and silence her laughter. Lloyd’s already dissolved into giggles, but his attempt to keep them quiet sounds a whole lot more like rheumatic wheezing, which only makes them laugh harder.

“Please,” Nya breathes, when they’ve finally wound down. “Never grow a beard.”

“I dunno,” Lloyd says, stroking his chin, in what he hopes looks like an accurate impression of Uncle Wu. “I think I got the face for it—”

“You don’t.”

“Ouch, right in the heart.”

“It’s for your own good, bud.”

“We’ll see what Kai says.”

“He’s gonna agree with me, and you know it.”

“Hmph.”

“…and Lloyd?”

“Hm?”

“ ‘Unfortunatetest’ isn’t a word.”

“You aren’t a word.”

The other funny thing about life, though, is that no matter how miserable it gets, it’s always bearable with Nya.

************************

Which is probably why Lloyd doesn’t really start to crack until Nya goes down.

“Oh no — oh no, Nya, you’re okay, you’re fine, you’re all good, just — you’re okay—”

“I’m fine, stop telling me what I already know,” Nya gets out, through gritted teeth against the pain. She couldn’t be more clearly not fine, but between the two of them, they seem to believe that if they can say it’s fine enough, it’ll all work out. It’ll be just fine. Nya just had a car fall on her and probably shattered her arm but it’s — it’s fine, she hasn’t lost it yet, and if it comes down to it, she can have his other arm, because Nya is not losing a limb today.

Between him and Dareth, they finally manage to get the car — the entire car, Lloyd is losing the battle to panic by the second — off Nya, and Lloyd’s right back at her side to worry more. Nya shrugs him off, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain as she struggles to rise, wobbling in place.  

But she still pushes herself up, on her feet, and picks up her spear with her good arm, and Lloyd decides for like, the tenth time this week, that Nya is the strongest person he knows. Right up there with Skylor, who’s actually insane, as it turns out, holding off an entire Colossi with his father’s stolen power — Skylor’s incredible.

But Skylor’s also currently unconscious in the battle wagon, and now Nya’s in severe pain and down an arm, and she doesn’t have a handy — aha —replacement like Lloyd does. And Pixal’s in Kryptarium so all that’s left of the ninja is Lloyd, and Dareth looking to him for answers, and Lloyd should be used to this, he’s leader, he could practically write the book on being in desperate, all-consuming-panic situations like this, but—

Harumi’s dead. Lloyd’s powers are gone, and people are dying now. Because of his dad, because of this stupid vengeance spree, because of him.

Lloyd’s eyes smart painfully, and he tightens his grip on Nya’s good arm, wondering, not for the first time, how in the world it had all come to this.

“We need to — we need to—” Nya cuts off, biting the inside of her cheek. Her composure falters, and Lloyd can see the same hopeless sort of exhaustion in her eyes, the weeks of running on fumes taking their toll. They need to get moving, they need to regroup, but there’s no one to regroup with. It’s just them, Lloyd and Nya, and they might be able to function independently better than anyone else but they’re also chronic younger siblings. The reminder that they’re not supposed to be alone is driven so deeply into their heads that it’s not even annoying anymore.

Not when they’re so very, very alone now.

“We can fall back,” Lloyd suggests, his voice wavering. “We can—” He swallows. Hide feels cowardly, but even he knows it’d be useless to suggest, anyways. They’ve run out of hiding places from Garmadon. He’d find them, Lloyd knows he will. His father is a lot of things right now, and relentless is one of the stronger ones.

“We can move, at least,” Dareth says, panic tinging his voice. “Those Sons of Garmadon will be on us any minute.”

It’s not Dareth’s fault, but it certainly feels a lot like karma as, at that very second, the sound of motorcycles echoes down the street, mixed with the familiar cries of the Sons of Garmadon.

They all go tense. Nya and Lloyd look at each other, and Lloyd wonders if the expression of fear on her face is mirrored on his, or if he looks closer to terror.

Either way, he’s frozen in place, and that’s bad, because they’re all frozen now. Maybe this is it. Maybe they’ve finally run out of the will to keep going. Maybe this is for the better. At least it’s not his father.

But then he remembers that they’ll probably take him to his father anyways, and if Lloyd didn’t have terror on his face before, he does now.

The loud roars of the motorcycles are circling now, and if Lloyd’s right, they’ve got barely a minute left before they’re surrounded. That’s not enough time to make it out. Not with everyone, not with the condition they’re in.

And Lloyd’s not about to leave anyone behind.

Nya sucks in a shaky breath, her face white from pain as her bad arm shifts. “Lloyd, do you — do you have any ideas?”

Lloyd stares up at the smoke rising above the city, his city, and the skin that meets his prosthetic throbs. His head does too, exhaustion mixed with pain mixed with dying adrenaline leaving him sick.

You’ve failed, Green Ninja. Your father won this round.

Like he does every round, Lloyd thinks bitterly. Morro had it right, back in Styx. He doesn’t deserve to be the Green Ninja. Not when he can’t win the fights that matter.

But he’s still Lloyd. He’s still Nya’s little brother, and even Garmadon can’t take that from him if he tried. So he shakes his head, croaking out, “Sorry, I’m stumped.”

It takes Nya a minute longer than usual, her eyes confused in her pale and dirt-stained face, but then—

She slumps against him, wheezing out what could be a laugh. “If that was an another arm pun, I swear—”

Lloyd tries to keep his face passively blank, but he can’t help the breathless huff of laughter that escapes. It very quickly threatens to turn into hyperventilating, so he cuts it off quickly. They all step closer to each other, forming a tight circle as the motorcycles roar into view, and Lloyd’s knuckles turn white with the fist he’s making.

He almost says I’m sorry, because it feels like what he should say right now, him and his whole sorry bloodline and everything that’s led to this. But Nya would probably hit him if he did that, and get that sad look on her face, so he doesn’t.

“This would be a really good time for the guys to get back,” Lloyd finally says instead, a bit hollowly. Nya gives him a weak smile that threatens to crack into despair as they’re surrounded, the blinding headlights from the Sons of Garmadon pinning them in place.

But maybe, just maybe, karma is on their side after all. Because, not half a second after Lloyd’s said those words, the sky opens up and roaring out from the bright portal, filthy and battered but alive, come the super late — like so late, for real, Lloyd’s gonna give them heck for this — rest of their family.

Lloyd doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to see his big brother’s ridiculous, spiky head of hair in his whole entire life.

************************

In the euphoria of reuniting with the guys and his uncle, Lloyd kind of forgets that he’s lost an arm for a second. He also forgets that the last time the guys saw him, he might have been a half-dead mess on Mystaké’s kitchen table, but he also had both arms. So it’s probably not — not the best of welcome back surprises he could’ve offered.

But the thing is, Lloyd’s at least been thinking his arm looked fine now. Like, it’s obviously not his arm arm anymore, but it’s a whole lot better than the ugly empty space that was there. And Nya put the dragon on and everything, so he can look sick when he either defeats his father or dies horribly.

But for all that it looks fine, the guys’ faces still go ten shades of white when they finally catch sight of it.

Lloyd thinks that’s rather unfair, considering they just burst out of the sky on a bunch of dragons after having been presumed dead, but he’s not gonna pick now to argue with them.

“Wha — how — what — is that—” Kai, predictably, is the first to go to pieces, his eyes wide as dinner plates in his dirt-stained face, his fingers hovering shakily over the metal arm as if touching it will make it real.

“Your arm,” Jay informs him blankly, gaping at him. “It’s gone?”

Oh, Lloyd’s aware.

“Yeah, it’s uh, it’s gone,” he explains, quickly. Then, because he needs to see a different expression on their faces than horrified shock— “It’s — it’s pretty disarming, haha, right?”

Kai looks like he’s either going to combust on the spot or physically smack him.

In the end, he makes this heartbreaking kind of “oh Lloyd” at him before throwing his arms around him, then immediately jumping to the absolute worst conclusions possible.

“Was it your dad — it was your dad, right? Was it Harumi? It must’ve been your dad, oh I’ll kill him, I’ll slaughter him for you Lloyd, I swear to FSM—”

This is followed by a general meltdown of “if only I’d been here,” which spirals into self-blame pretty fast, which Lloyd neither wants nor needs to happen right now (nor thinks is accurate, what could any of them have done anyways), so he throws Nya a desperate look.

“Look, stuff happened, okay?” she says, shouldering her way between Lloyd and the guys, wincing as her wrapped arm pulls. “The city’s on fire and Lloyd’s down an arm, we dealt with it. Right now we need to focus, because Garmadon and the Colossi are still out there, so please tell me those dragons are going to help us out.”

Again, Nya is one of Lloyd’s favorite people in the entire universe.

This distracts them enough that they momentarily get off Lloyd’s back, though he has a feeling he’s either gonna have to answer two hundred questions later or find a really good hiding spot.

But that’s a problem for a different Lloyd to worry about, and this one needs to focus on his father. And the fact that his uncle now looks ten times younger and is, much more importantly, about to let him ride on his dragon.

Lloyd’s halfway to the dragon when Cole catches him. He doesn’t grab him or anything, just touches his arm gently, his eyes horribly sad. “Lloyd,” he murmurs.

Something in Lloyd’s chest twists. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. How is he supposed to pretend he’s not sad when they’ve all got this look on their faces?

“It’s fine,” he blusters, with a smile that is only half-forced. Fortunately, he has this part rehearsed by now. “It’s not a big deal — it doesn’t even hurt or anything. Don’t worry about it.”

Cole looks like he has every single intention of worrying about it, because Cole is Cole, but Lloyd can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed because he’s missed them so, so much. Sure, he’s mad at himself for giving them something to immediately worry about the second they even get back to the realm, but Lloyd’s too happy to see them at all to mind that much.

Plus, there’s like, a fifty-fifty chance his father is about to kill him pretty soon anyways, so he tries to enjoy it while he can. He’s sure Uncle Wu will do his best, but unless he’s got something big up his sleeve — besides the, uh, age thing — Lloyd isn’t so sure.

Winning against Garmadon isn’t something he’s ever been particularly good at, even with both arms.

************************

Lloyd wins this round.

Somehow, somehow — bruised and bloodied and down an entire arm — he wins this one. It’s almost surreal, standing on top of Borg Tower, the wind whipping eerily around them as he stares down at his father, kneeling on the ground before him. His father, defeated. Lloyd didn’t have to break this time, he didn’t even have to bend. He defeated his father, without his powers, without any cursed venom fueling him, and without his arm.

Take that, you stupid snake.

Well — technically. Technically, he did defeat his father with his arm, because there are going to be some spectacular bruises on Garmadon where he got sucker-punched by a solid metal fist in the morning. But still.

Lloyd didn’t have to kill him. Not this time.

The relief that hits him is so dizzyingly crushing, he almost throws up.

But oh, it figures. The one time Lloyd can end things with his dad alive, and it’s the time his dad hates him.

But Lloyd knows a little too well that things could’ve ended a lot worse. He’s got his family back, his whole family, Kai and Jay and Cole and Zane and the people that have stuck through the worst of it with him, and that’s more than enough for Lloyd to be happy. He doesn’t die, they win back the city, and Kai only cries about it like three times, so honestly, it’s almost the best he could hope for. The worst part is out of the way now, so really — it should be smooth sailing from here. The guys are upset about the arm thing, obviously, but it’s not really that big a deal. Lloyd just has to convince them of that, which shouldn’t be a problem.

A piece of cake, compared to the last few weeks. Besides, he’s already been through the worst of it.

************************

As is his luck, Lloyd finds himself eating his words half a week later.

“First Master—“

Lloyd chokes back a curse, stumbling out from bed as quietly as he can, teeth clacking as he clenches them together to keep from making any more noise. The guys don’t move, still solidly asleep, but that’s going to change real quick if Lloyd starts cursing up a storm over his stupid arm.

He bumps into the doorway on the way out and almost screams, biting his lip hard instead and fleeing down the hallway. Ow, ow, ow. He must’ve rolled his shoulder into his sword sometime in the night, because that’s what it feels like, a horrible kind of deep ache that leaves him wanting to sever what’s left of his limb as he stumbles into the kitchen. At least then, there would be less to hurt.

Lloyd passes by the several large windows in the apartment they’ve been staying in, and his heart immediately sinks. It’s dark outside, but the city lights illuminate the growing clouds above, and he can spot the flash of lightning in the distance. If the slight buzz in his blood at the oncoming storm wasn’t enough to clue him in, the building pressure in the atmosphere certainly is.

And he used to like rain, Lloyd thinks miserably, leaning his head briefly against the wall.

There’s a distant roll of thunder, and something in his arm — his stump, there is no arm there to hurt, that should help — throbs, deep and aching. Lloyd squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back the budding tears of pain, and remembers his mission. They went shopping earlier, and he knows for a fact there’s pain killers somewhere in the kitchen. The promise of relief from the pain is enough to spur him from where he’s slumped against the wall, and he drags his feet down the rest of the hall, finally ducking into the kitchen, which is quiet and empty in the late-night hours.

Great. Now he’s just gotta find the stuff, and he can — well, he can try to go back to sleep. Maybe he’ll just watch cartoons instead, or stare blankly into oblivion, or something. His shoulder throbs again, and Lloyd forces himself to focus, blowing his breathe out. Right. Cole was the last one to take the meds, ‘cause he’s got all those nasty healing cuts. So if he was the one to put the bottle away last, that means it’s probably…on the…top shelf…

Lloyd carefully, quietly drowns the whine of despair in the back of his throat. He’d eat dirt before he admits he’s a shortie, but compared to Cole, everyone is, and Cole has a terrible habit of leaving all the meds on the highest shelf or cabinet possible when he’s done, which are always the ones Lloyd can’t reach. And right now, with the first drops of rain just starting to fleck on the windows, moving his arms anywhere above mid-waist sounds like death.

But sitting here with his arm on fire sounds even worse, so death it is.

Biting the bullet, Lloyd toes the handle on the drawer closest to the floor, bracing his good arm on the counter, and pushes himself up. He wobbles precariously, but he catches himself quickly, breathing out a huff of relief. Now comes the hard part. Gritting his teeth in determination, Lloyd swings his prosthetic arm up as quickly as he can, knocking against the uppermost cabinet and—

Lloyd’s vision blurs out as the pain in his shoulder decides to go nuclear, and he slips back down with a strangled choking sound, clutching the edge of his shoulder and desperately willing himself not to blast through the wall with his powers in agonized frustration. When the pain finally ebbs enough for him to think again, he slumps over the counter, bracing his good shoulder against it and letting the bad one hang loosely, where the pain pulses in and out like a heartbeat.

Like death, he thinks dully, hissing his breath out through his teeth. Right. Okay. He’ll just — take a nap on the counter then, until he can work himself back up to the cabinet.

Lloyd cracks an eye open, glaring hotly at the cabinet out of reach. Maybe if he like…rattles it? With his…leg, or something? He can do a pretty impressive high kick, if he tries. Anything not to move his stupid shoulders, because the pain radiating from the prosthetic port is — oh boy, it’s something.

…with hindsight, he should’ve been prepared for this. But still.

Lloyd kind of just….crashes on the counter, for as long as he can, but the pain finally gets bad enough that he’s willing to risk more for any kind of relief. Gritting his teeth again — his jaw is beginning to hurt — he squares his shoulders, instantly regretting the action as little lines of agony flare in his right side in tune with the thunder from outside. At that point, Lloyd’s brain finally decides it’s done with the situation on the whole, and he’s backing up to make a running jump for the cabinet, when—

“Who’s — stand down, I’ll blast you!”

Lloyd aborts his charge just in time to duck the bolt of lightning that flashes through the room with a yelp, sliding to the floor as his momentum sends him crashing into the lower drawers. His vision whites out for a good minute as he whacks his bad shoulder on the metal edge of a handle, and he might make some kind of muffled scream that sounds enough like him for Jay to recognize, because by the time it clears, Jay is staring at him with wide eyes, his face pale but clearly no longer registering Lloyd as a threat.

Still, just in case— “Don’t shoot,” Lloyd croaks out. “I’m unarmed.”

Jay’s expression spasms, but the crackle of electricity silences, and the blue light extinguishes as he lowers his hands. Lloyd notes the way they’re trembling, despite how hard Jay’s trying to stop it. “Lloyd, seriously,” he mutters, but he’s at Lloyd’s side in a beat, hovering anxiously.

“Are — are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Lloyd says, trying not to wince as he shoulder twinges. “I, uh, sorry if I scared you. I was just getting some water.”

Jay looks up to the cabinets, then back to Lloyd, where he’s yet to rise from the floor. He needs to get up already, because he’s got like, an image to keep here, but he’s also too scared that his stump of a limb is going to attempt murder again, and that’s keeping him pretty solidly rooted to the floor.

“You’re on the floor, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Lloyd shoots back, making a face. “Maybe I like it here.”

“Uh-huh.” Jay’s expression is narrow-eyed in skepticism, and Lloyd shrinks in on himself a bit. Still, though — the expression is better to see than the stark terror that had been written over Jay’s face when he’d walked in. The remnants of it are still there, if fading quick — Jay doesn’t look quite like Jay yet, bright and happy and quick on the uptake.

He looks tired, dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes, and his movements are slower than usual, as if perpetually lagging a step behind. Like he’s being dragged down by something, and it’s taking an extra amount of strength to fight it off that’d usually go toward bad jokes.

Which is sad, because Lloyd could really go for a bad joke right now. The atmosphere’s been heavy enough around their little apartment after everything, and it’s only worse now, with Lloyd curled up on the floor and Jay watching his arm with hollow eyes. And that’s not even talking about the actual atmosphere, which is currently trying to make Lloyd consider knocking himself out to escape the pain. Bad Jay jokes would be nice. Lloyd misses having something to laugh about.

But you know what, that’s quitter talk. Lloyd can make bad jokes, too.

“You uh, you wanna give me an arm up, here?” he says, grinning weakly at Jay. “Could really use a hand, if you get what I’m saying.”

“You — you’re terrible,” Jay sputters, but he cracks the edge of a smile, and Lloyd silently congratulates himself on that small victory.

“But you love me.”

It comes out too much of a question, and Lloyd bites his tongue. But Jay’s eyes soften as he pulls him up, and he’s gentle as he does it, so it barely hurts.

“Yeah, short stuff,” he says. “I do.”

And that’s — Lloyd swallows. That’s too much emotion for him to deal with in Jay’s voice right now, even if it is the kind of reassurance he clings to with a desperation these days.

“Short stuff,” he scowls instead. “You’re one to talk.”

“Nuh-uh,” Jay grins, a bit weaker than his usual one. “I grew a half an inch in the First Realm, bud. I’ve got you now.”

“No way,” Lloyd counters, squinting at him. “You look shorter, if anything. I’ve got you now.”

“I do not.” It’s Jay’s turn to scowl. “And please, the only height you’ve gained is your hair. Fluffing it up all crazy does not count.”

Lloyd snorts, despite himself. “My hair, you should see-ee—”

His voice abruptly pitches higher, strangling off mid-sentence as a fresh wave of bright pain sears through his shoulder, throbbing with the increased thudding of rain against the window. Lloyd almost bites his tongue in half as he dips forward, words momentarily lost as his teeth grind together.

Jay’s at his side in an instant. “It’s the storm, isn’t it,” he says, his eyes bright in concern. “Your arm is hurting extra.”

“T-technically, it’s not,” Lloyd breathes out. Words are back online again, that’s good. He exhales, shuddering. “S’just what’s left of it.”

Jay worries his lip, and then realization sparks in his eyes. “You were going for the top cabinet,” he says, slowly. Then— “Cole had the pain meds last, didn't he.”

Lloyd nods, his good hand clutching and un-clutching at his shoulder. Jay makes a sympathetic noise in his throat, then moves for the cabinet himself. He uses the same drawer handle as a step-up that Lloyd did, but he doesn’t wobble, snatching the bottle from the top shelf and stepping down neatly. Thunder shakes through the apartment, and Lloyd squeezes his eyes shut tight, barely conscious of the sound of running water. When he opens them, Jay is in front of him again, a glass of water and four larger pills held out.

“You look like you could use the extra,” he says, in explanation.

Lloyd nods gratefully, shoving the pills in his mouth before grabbing the glass and draining it. “Thanks,” he croaks out.

Jay nods, his eyes lingering on Lloyd’s prosthetic. He opens his mouth once, then closes it. Then opens it again, inhaling like he’s gonna say something, then shuts it again. Then again—

“Jay, spit it out.”

“CanIlookatit,” Jay blurts out, red immediately rising in his cheeks.

Lloyd blinks rapidly, trying to parse out the jumble of words. “Can you — huh?”

“Look at it,” Jay repeats, shifting awkwardly. “Your, uh, your arm? The prosthetic one, I mean. Just ‘cause I think I can help it! Help you, I think I can help you, ‘cause you kinda look like it’s hurting you, which would make sense, with the storm, and I might be able to — to help, if that’s not like, a problem with you — if it is that’s fine! I totally get it, I mean if my arm had got — was lost, I’d be—”

“J-Jay, slow — Jay,” Lloyd tries vainly to cut over him once, before succeeding the second time. Lloyd gives him a weak smile, then flops his arm out. He immediately regrets the action, as it feels like he’s shoved a knife or two into his arm. “It’s — ow — fine. You can look at it.”

“Oh! Cool,” Jay says, deflating in relief. “Ah, thanks for trusting me?”

Lloyd waves him off, with his good arm his time. “There’s like, six people left I trust, but I trust ‘em with my life. You’re one of them.”

“Oh,” Jay repeats, but he sounds sad this time. A little too understanding, too, and Lloyd wonders if their entire team isn’t suffering similar issues with putting faith in people, after everything.

“Here,” Jay says firmly, as if shaking that sobering thought off. He points to the couch, eyeing Lloyd as he winces with the thunder again. “Wanna lie down, so I can look at it?”

“Sure,” Lloyd mutters, flopping down on the couch (and immediately regretting the action, again, you’d think he’d learn by now), lying with his head at the left end so he can spread his prosthetic out on the edge of the cushioned footrest. Jay steps over, carefully sitting down on the floor by him, hands hovering hesitantly over the arm.

…his arm. His arm, just a bit different.

“I like the design here,” Jay says quietly, his fingers ghosting over the engraving Nya had put on one quieter day during the Resistance. It’s in the shape of a dragon, like the one of his other spare prosthetic, but this one is a little subtler, almost sketched into the metal. “It’s cool.”

“Nya did it,” Lloyd says. “And you can touch it, if you want.”

“Oh — yeah,” Jay gives a nervous laugh. “Um. Could I, like, see where it…attaches?”

Lloyd blinks, glancing to where the sleeves of his too-big (Kai’s) t-shirt fall well over where the metal arm meets his stump. He swallows, then nods, carefully rolling back the fabric until his shoulder’s exposed. “That good?”

Jay, to his credit, just gives a quiet, hissing little intake of breath, and nods. And it really is to his credit, because while Pixal did all she could, the surgery was — well, Lloyd was in and out during it, but it was haphazard at best, and the scarring it left all up to his shoulder is…

It’s not pretty. And Lloyd’s been thinking he doesn’t mind, but now that he actually has someone looking at it, he’s realizing he might.

Time to invest in a lot more long sleeves, he thinks dully.

Jay’s frozen for a second, and Lloyd bites his lip, trying not to squirm as he stares openly at the scarring. Then he shakes his head, bright eyes gaining the steady determination Lloyd knows, and sets to work, fingers carefully skimming one of the compartment edges.

“Lemme know if anything hurts.”

Lloyd just nods. It’s weird, at first, feeling but not really feeling as Jay fiddles with the arm. He still doesn’t like not being able to truly feel stuff with it, but right now, with the pulsing pain still lingering from the storm outside, he’s almost glad for it. To the point where the idea of feeling anything else in what’s left of his poor arm almost has him flinching away from Jay.

Jay’s fingers are careful, though, and he finally clicks something in the arm into place that shifts the whole thing, the throbbing pressure on a few particular nerves in Lloyd’s arm letting up some, and his shoulders go loose in relief, the tight rigidness he’s been holding them in easing off.

“Oh,” he exhales in relief, a bit shakily as he sits up. “That’s better. That — thank you. That’s a lot better.”

Jay beams, clearly pleased with himself. “No problem, green machine,” he says. “Just glad I can help. I mean, Nya did a great job with it, but the uh — the wires right here, you see? Those can get twisted up if you move around a lot, and that’ll create pressure on the nerves, and then you’ve got the gears here, and…”

Lloyd quickly loses track of Jay’s technical babble, nodding along like he understands instead. His brother’s stream of chatter is a nice sound against the rain in the background, warm and familiar, and Lloyd slowly relaxes further, his shoulders crying in relief as they lose their tension. The meds are kicking in now too, and the pain’s ebbed into something a lot easier to manage. Enough for Lloyd to start feeling guilty, anyways.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” he finally says, after Jay’s wound down from his explanation, ducking his head.  

Jay waves him off. “I was already up, anyways,” he shrugs. “The storm woke me. They…they do that a lot.”

Lightning flashes, as if to echo his statement, and Lloyd notices the twitch that runs through Jay this time, how he almost seems to vibrate with the thunder that follows.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, a little hesitantly. “The storm?”

It feels like a silly question, because Jay can practically create storms, he thrives in them, Lloyd’s seem him straight-up catch a lightning bolt in his hand and chuck it like a baseball without breaking a sweat. But even though Lloyd's definitely not the ninja of lightning, it is the element he found easiest to wield, when he’d had all four, and he remembers the way the connection would buzz at him.

Jay bites his lip, his fingers tapping some vaguely familiar beat on the table as he fidgets, turning the question over in his head.

“It’s — I feel it under my skin, you know?” he finally says, bouncing a bit in agitation. “I mean, it’s not bad, but I can — I can hear the lightning outside, like it’s talking to me, and I can’t sleep through it. I normally can, I mean, but — but normally it’s not this loud.”

He trails off, frustrated as he glares out the window. “Everything’s been loud since the First Realm,” he mutters, beneath his breath.

“Oh,” Lloyd says, quietly. The guys have told them about the First Realm, sure, but like — not really. The same way Lloyd and Nya have told them about the Resistance, but not really. An outline of the events, sure. A plot-like summary of important details, as detached as possible, sure. But all the worst parts, the crushing grief and despair and the awful headaches from too little sleep and too many held-back tears, all that? No way.

So while Lloyd knows they went through heck in the First Realm, he doesn’t really know. But with the way Jay’s eyes are shadowed, the dark circles beneath them and the way he looks like he’s years older as he stares at the storm out the window right now, he can guess.

“That must’ve been tough,” he finally says, hesitantly. “Being stranded, and everything. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I was cut off from everything like that.”

Jay blows his breath out, his fingers trembling slightly where they lace together. “It wasn’t fun,” he says, a little distantly. “I…I was kind of a mess, at first. I think I scared the guys. I wish I hadn’t, but it was just — it was a lot.”

Lloyd’s not sure what to say to that, so he just squeezes Jay’s forearm with his good hand, and hopes it’s worth something.

Jay shakes his head, almost as if to himself, “I just wish I’d been useful.”

Lloyd blinks at that, taken aback — and pretty concerned — at the gaping insecurity in Jay’s voice. He knows Jay struggles with that, but to see it this raw—

It hurts.

“Kai says you helped build that dragon,” he says, nudging Jay’s side with his knee. “That plan wouldn’t have worked without you. And you drew up the actual plans, and kept them secret and everything. And I saw you, when you guys came back. You saved us, right in the nick of time. It sounded like you were pretty crucial to the whole thing, to me.”

Jay gives a huff of laughter, but some of the tension in his expression eases. “You’re just saying that. Buttering me up,” he shakes his head, knocking his fist against Lloyd’s leg.

“Am not,” Lloyd says, kneeing him back. “I’m serious. You’re all kinds of useful. I’d totally hire you, if you came to me with your ninja resumé.”

“Yeah, ‘cause job number one on it would be ‘green ninja babysitter’. You’d have no choice."

Lloyd sputters. “I’m not — you guys don’t babysit me.”

“I have a whole lot of evidence that proves otherwise,” Jay says, grinning. “The others would agree, too.”

“This is mutiny,” Lloyd glares. “The nerve, the utter disrespect. I’m your leader.”

Jay actually laughs at that, further proving Lloyd’s point that his whole team is awful. But it’s a genuine laugh, one that softens the lines of stress at the corners of Jay’s eyes, so Lloyd figures he can let it go and laugh a little himself.

This time. They’re gonna have to talk about the babysitting thing later.

“We really missed you guys,” Lloyd finally says as his laughter ebbs, his traitor voice cracking in the middle. “A-a lot. I’m really glad you’re back. Like, you have no idea.”

“I think we kinda do,” Jay breathes out on dying laughter. “We missed you too, you know. We couldn’t even check if you were alright, we had no idea what was happening. You guys were realms away.”

Lloyd swallows back the ‘but you were dead’. Jay doesn’t need that knowledge right now. Jay needs to be able to relax, and to get more than three hours of sleep for once.

“Well, we’re in the same one now,” he says, with a wry smile. “Hopefully we can stay that way, for a while.”

“Do not jinx us,” Jay points his finger at him, and Lloyd manages a grin that feels genuine this time, shrugging. He’s beyond pleased to find out that the action doesn’t hurt so much, only feeling the faint twinges of pain this time. Lloyd stifles a yawn instead of replying, and Jay fixes him with a look, jerking his head back toward the bedroom.

“If your arm’s better, you should get back to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lloyd mutters, biting back a groan as he stands, wobbling a bit as his arm swings loosely. “That goes for you, too.”

“I’m not the one with designer bags for eyes,” Jay says, even though he clearly has dark circles worse than Lloyd. He pauses, eyeing Lloyd’s arm. “You really shouldn’t sleep with this on, you know,” he adds, tapping his wrist, nails clacking oddly on the metal.

Lloyd cringes. “I know,” he mutters. “I’m just — I don’t wanna have to put it on, if we…”

“If we’re attacked in the middle of the night?” Jay says drily, but there’s understanding in his voice. “Yeah, I get that. But hey, how about this: you sleep with it off for tonight, and if anyone comes in to kill you, I’ll take ‘em out.”

Lloyd raises an eyebrow. “Lightning blast to the face?”

“Lightning blast to the face,” Jay nods solemnly.

Lloyd shifts, arms wrapped around himself, his real fingers clenching anxiously at the juncture where his prosthetic meets his arm. It’s tempting, the idea of having the heavy weight off for the night. Really tempting.

But that also means taking it off, and that sounds…less than fun, especially after all the pain he’s already been in tonight.

“I’ll consider it,” Lloyd says, smiling weakly. “But I have full faith in you.”

Jay’s eyes are understanding as he nods, knocking his fist gently against Lloyd’s arm again. “Good. Now, bed. Practice starts back tomorrow, remember? You don’t wanna be dead tired for that.”

Lloyd’s heart sinks. Oh, no. He’d forgotten.

“Aw, man,” he moans. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

“Don’t say that,” Jay says, clearly trying to sound optimistic. “It’ll go fine. Wait and see.”

************************

It is, in fact, a disaster.

The first practice with the guys after everything reminds him a whole lot of his first time sparring with Nya down one arm, and that — well, sucks. That’s about as cheerfully as he can put it.

“Do you need a hand?” Lloyd looks up at the voice, shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun. Zane’s standing over him, looking slightly apologetic, his hand outstretched.

Lloyd takes the offered hand, pulling himself with a grunt of effort. “Yeah, a right one would be nice.”

Jay and Nya groan in unison. Zane just flicks his eyes skywards, his mouth curving up slightly as he hauls Lloyd the rest of the way to his feet. Lloyd wobbles a bit, caught off guard, and Zane steadies him, grabbing for his prosthetic before he can lose balance. Zane’s hand lingers a little too long around it, his eyes flashing in concentration where they rest on the metal fingers. Lloyd’s about to ask him what’s up — growing slightly defensive — when Zane lets go, blinking once. The look of furrowed concentration stays on his face even as he steps back, though, and Lloyd’s not sure if he likes that.

“Sorry, Lloyd,” Cole says, interrupting his train of thought as he steps forward, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck in guilt. “I didn’t think you’d — I shouldn’t have been hitting that hard.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Kai snaps testily, his eyes flashing in the dangerous kind of protectiveness Lloyd’s used to seeing against people not in their family. He quickly intervenes, waving his hands.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, chill out,” he says, hastily. “I wasn’t paying attention, it was my fault. Besides, it’s not any worse than what Nya gave me the first time we sparred with, uh…the arm.”

Nya rolls her eyes. “You kept tripping everywhere. That’s not my fault.”

Lloyd goes a bit red, but he doesn’t argue back. He’s pretty sure Pixal has video footage that would invalidate any argument he’d have, anyways.

Kai looks between the two of them, then seems to lose some of the fire, shoulders sagging. “Just…be more careful,” he mutters. “Lloyd’s arm is still pretty new.”

Lloyd’s head swivels to Kai, his mouth half-open, incredulous. He begs Kai’s pardon, who, again, lost their arm here and who definitely didn’t? Who knows what they’re talking about, and who knows absolutely nothing—

“Yeah, no, for sure,” Cole nods back, like Lloyd isn’t even here. “I’ll let up on the heavier attacks, too.”

Lloyd snaps his mouth shut tightly. He wants to scream. They’re all acting like Lloyd is glass, like he’s fragile. And that’s not the problem. The problem isn’t his arm. The problem isn’t even that he’s not used to the prosthetic, because at this point he kinda is. (He’s getting there.) No, the problem is that the guys are all walking on eggshells around him, to the point where the hits they do throw at him are so sporadic it’s completely throwing Lloyd off. Like he’s being attacked by uncoordinated chickens with no heart in their attacks, or something.

It’s actually a pretty good strategy to keep in mind, he muses, for another time when the target isn’t him.

“Um, no, you won’t,” he says instead, biting his cheek to keep the edge out of his voice. “You’re going to actually attack me. You’re holding back so much right now you’re handicapping yourself worse than me without a metal arm.”

Cole looks taken aback. “I just sent you to the ground, bud,” he says. “Hard.”

“You only sent me to the ground because I wasn’t expecting you to hit like Jay,” Lloyd shoots back.

“Hey!”

“If that’s the tactic you wanna use, fine, but only if you’ve got a plan for when I blast you right back from the ground.”

Cole blinks. “Do your powers even work with the prosthetic?”

“I do have another arm,” Lloyd growls. He immediately feels bad, because he sounds angrier than he should be, but that subject’s touchy. He hasn’t tried to use his powers with the prosthetic yet, apart from the blinding blast of energy he’d given off when he’d first gotten them back, and he doesn’t want to find out if another use will blow his arm to pieces or not.

“It should work with it, anyways,” Nya assures them, though there’s a spark of uncertainty in her eyes. “Your powers are pretty intuitive. They protect you, so it wouldn’t make sense for them to hurt you like that.”

Lloyd doesn’t say how completely unfounded this is, because his powers tried to protect him during the fight with his father and they sure as heck hurt him then, but she does have…a bit of a point. And again — there’s like, the glaring fact that his arm did not explode when he went supernova on top of Borg Tower. And Lloyd’s control is way better these days, so in all honesty, it’ll probably be fine.

But on the off chance. Lloyd is trying to be more careful, lately.

Now the guys, though. The guys are taking careful to a completely ridiculous level.

“Maybe we should tone it down for today, just to be safe,” Kai says, exchanging looks with Cole. A vein somewhere in Lloyd’s forehead begins to throb. “We don’t want to take any risks.”

“Oh, yeah, like we weren’t taking plenty of risks while you guys were gone in the First Realm. Oh wait, we did, and we were just fine then,” Lloyd snaps.

He immediately regrets it, because Kai’s expression does this awful crumpling thing, and Cole’s eyes widen painfully. Jay just looks down, and Lloyd hates himself.

“I-I didn’t mean—” he stammers, grasping desperately for the words to apologize, when Zane lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

“How about I train with Lloyd one on one for a bit,” he says. The corners of his mouth quirk up, humorlessly. “I think cooling down might be in order.”

Lloyd feels his cheeks heat, but he ducks his head, nodding. Kai looks like he want to protest, but he shuts his mouth, nodding as well, and Lloyd’s relieved to see a kind of understanding in his eyes.

He hopes he does, Lloyd thinks to himself, as Zane leads them away from the others, to the other side of the yard they’re using for training. He hopes, that Kai and Jay and Cole know he isn’t actually trying to attack them for getting yanked into another realm instead of being crushed to death, because that is definitely not something he would ever complain about—

“So, how strong is your arm?”

Lloyd blinks rapidly, yanked back to the present. “My — what?”

Zane repeats the question, patiently. “Your arm, the prosthetic one. Do you know how strong it is?”

“Like…as in durability, or how hard can I hit with it?” Lloyd asks, flexing a metal wrist.

“Ah. That’s a good question,” Zane tilts his head. “Both, I suppose.”

“Um, pretty strong, I guess,” Lloyd winces, remembering the last time he’d tested how strong it was, and he’d sent the punching bag through the wall instead. “Most of the strength is in my forearm, ‘cause it’s just metal and gears there. It gets a little dicey where it connects, up here, but it can take the heavy hits.”

His father had the honor of testing that part out, he thinks bitterly.

Zane nods, his eyes calculating. “Good. Then show me a heavy hit.”

It takes a second for the question to register, but when it does, Lloyd blanches. “No,” he says, firmly. “No way.” He remembers how the punching bag crumpled beneath his metal fist. He remembers too well how his father, full power, had actually buckled under several of his hits. The idea of hitting one of the guys with that same force makes him sick.

“Ah,” Zane says, and there’s a spark in his eyes. “So now you want to start holding back.”

“This — this is different,” Lloyd grinds out, trying not to go red in embarrassment. “It’s one thing to hold back entirely, but my arm is — its different, Zane, it’s way stronger now, and I don’t wanna hurt you guys with it.”

“I’m not going to break, Lloyd,” Zane says, cooly.

Lloyd bites his lip. “Look, I’m serious, you don’t understan—”

The end of Lloyd’s sentence cuts off with a yelp as Zane sweeps his leg out from beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He looks up at him, wounded, and Zane just tilts his head.

“You said you want us to stop holding back,” he says, challenging. “You want a real fight, so fight back. Hit me.”

That’s all the warning Lloyd gets before Zane sweeps another kick toward him, forcing Lloyd to roll out of the way, somersaulting backwards before springing back to his feet. He opens his mouth to protest, but Zane’s elbow is already whistling toward his head, followed by his fist, and Lloyd’s too busy blocking and dodging to get any word out edgewise.

He’s not going to hit him with it, Lloyd tells himself fiercely. He’s not, but — but Zane is actually attacking him now, with all the cool calculation and devastating accuracy Zane is really good at, and if Lloyd doesn’t launch a counterattack soon, Zane’s going to obliterate him in full view of everyone.

Through the buzz of adrenaline, Lloyd bites back a curse. He’s forgotten, for a crippling moment, how smart Zane is. The way he’s pressing on him is leaving his left arm for blocking, which means the only way he’s gonna get a decent hit in is with his right. So either Lloyd sucks it up and hits Zane with the metal arm already, or he’s going to eat dirt the rest of the day.

Darn it, Zane, Lloyd thinks heatedly, barely dodging the next barrage of hits, wincing as one clips his shoulder. He’s just gonna have to do it. They both asked for this—

Lloyd suddenly ducks, darting beneath Zane’s blow then squaring back, bringing his fist up and swinging hard — just to crash right into Zane’s own blocked fist with a loud, screeching clang of metal.

Lloyd blinks. The hit he’d just thrown wasn’t holding back — it was way harder than he should’ve thrown, actually — but Zane just slides a few feet back, barely flinching. He flexes his wrist, a grin curving up the edge of his mouth.

“You aren’t the only one with a metal arm, you know,” he says evenly, and oh. Oh. Lloyd stops dead, staring at him.

So Lloyd’s just an idiot. Here he is, freaking out about how different his arm is now, how no one gets it, and Zane’s been metal this whole entire time.

“I…” Lloyd trails off, staring at him wordlessly. He feels so stupid, a total sham of the leader he’s supposed to be. He’s overlooked the most obvious fact ever, to the point where he’s been severely misjudging Zane, and that’s…that’s bad. That’s very bad, if he’s calling himself leader here.

And that, Lloyd realizes, with an unpleasant jolt, is the real problem with all this. Not the guys, not the arm. It’s Lloyd, failing to lead them against Harumi, failing to lead them against his father, and failing to lead them now. No wonder they can’t take him seriously, when Lloyd can’t even give them the decency of doing the same.

“Oh,” he whispers.

“It’s difficult,” Zane says, quietly. “To see yourself as one way, then suddenly as another. Even if it’s just one limb. Adjusting can be…difficult.”

Lloyd ducks his head, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

Zane makes a noise that could be a huff of laughter, if it wasn’t so exasperated. “You don’t need to apologize. That is not the point I’m trying to make.”

Lloyd stares at the ground, not meeting his eyes. Zane’s footsteps draw close, until he’s right in front of him.

“Lloyd.” Zane’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, and Lloyd slowly looks up at him, feeling very much like he’s nine years old again, and Zane is the older brother who knows infinitely more about the world than he ever will.

“We are more than just a team for you to lead,” he says, gently. “We’re your family, above all else. We may not have been here when you needed us, but we are here now, and we want to be. We trust you. We just want you to trust us back.”

“I do,” Lloyd says, fervently. “I do, Zane, and I didn’t mean to — I never blamed—” He cuts off, shaking his head and swallowing. “I wanted to be there, too,” he rasps. “I — we couldn’t be there for you guys, either. You were alone, too. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to any of us.”

“No,” Zane says, sounding very tired. “No, it wasn’t.”

Not for the first time, Lloyd wonders how heavily the guys edited their own story of their time apart, and how much of the darker stuff they decided to leave out. The hollow look in Zane’s eyes leaves his stomach sinking. Probably a lot.

“B-but we’re together now,” Lloyd finally speaks up, cringing at the waver in his voice. “And, um. I know I’ve been most of the problem, but — but I trust you guys. I trust you, so — could you show me how to use my arm?”

Zane looks at him, and Lloyd offers him a tentative smile. “Since you’re the resident expert, and all.”

Zane’s mouth quirks up in a grin of amusement, and Lloyd feels a happy flare of victory at the action.  

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” he says, lightly. “But yes, I can help adjust your training. Provided, of course, you throw better hits. No offense intended, but that one was…pitiful, at best.”

Lloyd chokes on a laugh. “Okay, if that’s how it is. I’ll show you a real hit. Just don’t go crying to Cole when I wipe the floor with you.”

“I assure you,” and there’s an edge to Zane’s smile that promises Lloyd’s not leaving here without his fair share of bruises. “I have no intention of doing so.”

************************

Training with Zane helps even more than he’d thought it would. Not only does Lloyd start to learn how to better use his prosthetic to an advantage, the others pick up on it and start actually fighting Lloyd again, well-practiced moves and techniques that force him to fight back, and by the third week of practices they’ve all slid back into a steady routine, even if there is still the occasional hesitation when it comes to Lloyd’s right arm.

Except for Nya. She’s been sending him sprawling across the mat since day one, no problem, and even with her healing arm she’s never stopped threatening to do it again.

Lloyd’s beyond grateful, though — he’s starting to almost feel normal again, to feel a little like his old self, with his proper place on the team, and he finally, finally feels like he’s doing something right. So he’s got no right to complain whatsoever, when the increased training leaves his arm feeling so sore he may as well have gotten hit by a truck.

A throbbing ache shoots through his right wrist again, pulsing up through the bones of his arm. Lloyd’s fingers grasp on air, wavering once, twice before it clicks that there’s nothing there. A croaking laugh almost bubbles up in his throat. His arm is in agony and it’s not even there. There is no wrist there to hurt, he doesn’t even have his prosthetic on right now. So why—

Phantom pain, he reminds himself firmly, before clicking the prosthetic back into place, the motion slowly growing familiar. It’s just a ghost, like Morro. Lloyd survived him, he can survive this.

Besides, he doesn’t have time to be hallucinating an arm that’s not there. He’s gotta have his best face on right now, because this…this is going to take a lot out of him.

Lloyd stares at Kryptarium Prison with hollow eyes, trying to rid himself of the icy shiver that’s crawling up and down his spine. They’ve since fixed the damage to the walls, and he’s eternally grateful for that — but the stretch of stone that’s been recently repaired is obvious, and Lloyd can easily pick out exactly where he went bursting through when—

When Lloyd’s brain was an idiot, he scolds himself, as the shiver threatens to turn into a full-blown panic attack. Those memories need to go right back into the dark hole he’s shoved them in, where they can stay for the rest of his entire life.

Besides, the person he’s about to see is gonna bring back enough bad memories, as it is.

Lloyd swallows, forcing past the fear closing in around his throat as he finally starts walking again, his feet practically dragging toward the prison doors. His arm throbs in pain with every step, spreading to the aching twin points on the back of his right hand.

Which isn’t there, he reminds himself fiercely. There’s no hand to hurt, move past it, brain.

The doors slide open for him with a mechanical hiss, a chiming bell warning the guards of his entrance. Lloyd’s in full gi, hood pulled back, so no one stops him, the outermost guards just nodding to him as he passes. Lloyd barely manages a grimace of greeting for them, where he’d normally have at least something sincere. But it’s hard enough, trying to keep his expression impassive. Each step further into the prison feels like a step closer to his doom, and this is ridiculous because the only other time he’s felt this nervous walking up a set of stairs was the Overlord—

“Name, please?”

Lloyd blinks, abruptly realizing he’s already reached the check-in gate. He shakes his head, trying to reorient himself. Name, please, he thinks drily, as he looks up. Like this guard doesn’t know who he is, entirely decked out in green, it isn’t like he’s been on TV a whole lot in the last month—

Anyways.

“Lloyd Garmadon,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound like a gasp for air. “I’d like to see my — um, Lord Garmadon. He should be in heavy lockdown.”

Private lockdown, somewhere dark and deep, probably, Lloyd thinks. He tells himself he doesn’t feel anything at that. His father probably likes it, anyways, being alone and in the dark. That’s all it seems he’d even wanted, except for maybe her—

Lloyd thrusts the hot flash of emotion down deep along with the rest of that thought, and tries to focus on the guard’s reply.

“—terribly sorry, but I can’t let you in.”

Lloyd’s brain stutters to a halt. “Sorry, could you repeat that?” he frowns, taken aback. He doesn’t like to throw his weight around, but Lloyd’s pretty sure that the ninja are supposed to have clearance to the entire prison. Especially after everything that’s happened, he and Nya practically have clearance to the entire city at this point.

“Your name’s been blacklisted,” the guard chews on the edge of his lip nervously. “Y-you aren’t allowed access to the prisoner in question.”

Lloyd blinks rapidly. “What?”

The guard is visibly sweating now. “The, uh, the records say I can’t let you in. To see him. Not without a signature.”

Lloyd’s stomach does a weird swooping thing, like he’s missed a step on the stairs. If he needs a signature, then someone had to go out of their way to block him — specifically him — from seeing Garmadon. Someone who the warden apparently decided had the right to make decisions for Lloyd.

“Who’s signature,” Lloyd grits out, fury barely held back.

The poor guard — because he really doesn’t deserve this, but oh, Lloyd is angry — shrinks even smaller in his seat, swallowing.

“Wu,” he finally says, stammering. “Your uncle, he — I’m sorry, but he technically has the right…”

Lloyd steps back, metal creaking as his fist forms. “Thank you,” he clips out tightly, then spins in place, hoping his eyes haven’t gone supernova yet.

No, he’s saving that for his uncle.

************************

“How could you do that.”

Sensei Wu barely stirs, visibly unaffected by the way Lloyd’s just slammed his door open, and is currently fuming in the doorway like a very angry part-Oni crime of nature.

“It was, at the moment, the correct course of action to take.” He sips evenly at his tea, not even attempting to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what Lloyd’s talking about.

Lloyd sees red. “You had no right.”

Sensei Wu finally looks at him, sighing wearily. “I’m your family, Lloyd. I have every right—”

“Not this one!”

Sensei’s eyes are sympathetic, but unrelenting. “Your mother told me what happened, Lloyd. What you did.”

Lloyd almost swallows his tongue at the shock of surprise, but it quickly mixes with a hot flare of betrayal in his chest. It’s his arm, it’s his story to tell.

“Cool.” The words scrape through his teeth. “That doesn’t mean you can block me from seeing him!”

“Your head isn’t in the right place to see him, Lloyd. Neither is your heart. I believe you know this, too.”

“My head—” Lloyd trips over his words in anger. “My head is fine! So’s my heart, thanks.”

Sensei Wu’s eyes narrow. “You’ve never been the best of liars, nephew.”

Lloyd is going to smash his stupid teapot. “Then maybe your perception is still off from the First Realm, uncle.”

A part of Lloyd’s soul dies at the sentence, because it’s the most dangerously rude thing he’s said to his uncle since he was like, eight. But he swallows it back, because he has a bad feeling it’s not going to be the worst thing he says in this conversation.

His uncle’s lips press tightly together, and Lloyd feels more than sees the crackle of anger in his eyes as the atmosphere heats, no longer a conversation between sensei and student. It’s a family conversation, now. “I hardly need much perception to see how traumatized you are from recent events. It’s not difficult to miss.”

“Traumatized—” Lloyd sputters, his own eyes narrowing. “You know what, fine, so what? It’s not like I haven’t been — been traumatized, or whatever, before,” he snaps. “Morro put my head pretty out of place, and you were fine with that.”

Sensei Wu’s eyes flash. “I was not ‘fine’ with that. I was nowhere near fine with that, but at that time you were equipped to deal with it. And you were not forcing yourself to face Morro on some shred of false hope you know will only hurt.”

Lloyd full-body flinches back at that last part. But it’s not that — it’s not because —

See, Lloyd knows. He’s had it physically beaten into him multiple times, that he’s not the father he knew. He knows that he’s not really him, that he will never be him, that he will never regain the father he lost no matter how much this one looks like him.

But — but Lloyd’s heart can only take so much at once, and he’s dangerously close to reaching a point where nothing will repair that kind of break. He can take a hundred prison walls and his arm cut off fifty times in a row, but that is something he’d rather die than have to face right now.

And to hear the phrase false hope coming from the one person he’d hoped would understand nearly breaks Lloyd on the spot.

So he gets angry instead.

“You taught me not to give in to fear,” his voice is icy, words measured and slow. “You taught me not to put off until tomorrow what I can deal with today, and you wanted me to make my own decisions.”

“Yet I do not recall teaching you to disregard any and all concerns for your wellbeing,” his uncle replies, his voice just as glacial. “Nor do I remember teaching you to argue back against my orders.”

“You made me master!” Lloyd nearly shouts back, barely restraining himself. “You told me to start giving the orders, how am I supposed to do that if you don’t trust me? You can’t keep doing this to me, either you trust me or you don’t!”

“I do trust you, but I will not lose another member of my family because they believe they’re stronger than they are!” Uncle Wu snaps, his eyes flashing, and for a beat Lloyd can almost see the Oni in his blood, as well. “I’ve forced you to face your father too many times, Lloyd. I will not let him continue to hurt you.”

“He isn’t hurting me!” Lloyd bursts out, despite knowing those words are a stone-cold lie. But— “He’s already hurt me, I almost died, what worse can he do from a prison cell?”

“More than you will acknowledge!” his uncle barks back. He exhales tightly, eyes closing briefly before re-opening. “Lloyd, I understand that you are upset with my decision. But in time, you will see that this was the right one. Your perception is clouded to the point where you can no longer see yourself properly, and a leader who continues to put themselves further into that state is not fit to be leader.”

Lloyd’s teeth snap together with an audible clack, and his fists tighten, fingernails biting into his palms and metal fingers creaking. “You’ve been gone for months,” he grinds out. “For a year, and I led just fine that whole time. You can’t just come back now and say I’m — I’m a screwup—”

“That is not what I—”

“And you keep talking about decisions, when you didn’t even ask me before—”

“Lloyd—”

“—going behind my back is way out of line and you know it!”

“This is not—”

“And my perception is fine, I do see myself—”

“Lloyd, I said—”

“—and I’m fine, Uncle Wu, I swear, I can face him I’m fine—”

“That is enough, Lloyd!”

Lloyd flinches back as his uncle’s voice cracks out, angrier than he’s heard it. Wu’s knuckles turn white around his cup handle, and his eyes glint with the steel of his glare. “This is my decision, and I will not move from it until you can prove that you are ready.”

Until he can prove he’s ready. Like Lloyd hasn’t had to prove again and again—

Like he doesn’t believe in Lloyd either when he was the one—

Like Lloyd wasn’t willing to lose an arm not to fail him—

Something dangerous in Lloyd snaps.

“You’re just as bad as him,” he spits, venomous like a snake. “You’re all the same, you think you know what’s best for me and you never care how I feel! You don’t even care about me, you just care about the stupid Green Ninja and your stupid prophecies and I’m sick of it, I’m so sick of being your Green Ninja, I hate it!”

Sensei Wu goes stark white. His fingers tremble and his teacup drops to the table, his eyes painfully wide. “Lloyd,” he whispers, weakly. “That’s not—”

“Fine,” Lloyd snaps over him, blinking back angry tears. “Fine, I’ll stay away from him. I’ll stay away from all of you. I hate being part of this family anyways.”

He turns on heel before he can look at his uncle a second longer, before the tears can start to fall and he has the chance to say anything else. There’s a high-pitched buzzing in his ears as he storms back down the hall, the lightbulbs above him sparking wildly in his wake before shorting out, exploding into tiny bits of glass that rain over the floor.

Lloyd darts past them, hurrying his footsteps as he tries to escape the apartment with the rest of the lights unscathed. Shoving open the stairwell door, Lloyd makes a break for the rooftop, where he at least knows it’ll be quiet, and there won’t be as many lights for him to burst, and his uncle can’t—

Lloyd pushes the rooftop door open and stumbles out with a heaving gasp, drawing air in desperately as if that’ll ground him. His heart is racing way too fast, way too angry, and his power is zinging all over his skin like a swarm of angry bees. He’s almost dizzy with how angry he is — except that’s not right, he’s not just angry, there’s a whole wave of emotion coming in from somewhere that’s threatening to — to drown him, and this is why Lloyd should always keep things bottled back where they belong—

A transformer across the street blows, and Lloyd jumps in alarm as it explodes, showering sparks down toward the street below. Lloyd blinks past the blurring tears, his stomach dropping. There’s a flickering of lights before the apartment complex below it goes dark, power lost as startled cries sound from the open windows. The power lines around him start thrumming dangerously, reaching a higher-pitched whine that prefaces bursting. Lloyd’s throat closes over in panic. Oh, no. He didn’t think — he can't be this bad. He doesn’t lose control like this, he — he needs to stop, right now, or the entire city’s going to lose power.

He clenches his fists again, trying to reign the power in, to pull it back to him, but it only sputters more wildly out of control. Lloyd’s hands are trembling now, shaking worse than before, and in a desperate attempt for it to stop he crumples to the rooftop, pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, burying his head in the crook of his flesh elbow and squeezing tight, metal digging painfully into his leg as he draws in tighter and tighter — like he can crush himself down into something small enough that he won’t feel so much anymore, and his power will stop, stop—

But it’s like he’s back in the prison, his power sparking wildly out of control and not listening to him. Just like her. Like his father, like his uncle, nothing he’s gotten from his family ever listens to him when it matters, and why should they. Why will they ever, when all Lloyd’s ever going to be is a weapon, a scribbled line in a prophecy or a stepping stone for power—

It’s his power. His power, and he can’t even get it to listen to him.

Lloyd listens to the power lines around him explode and lets his sweatshirt sleeve soak up the tears.

Lying to himself can only get him so far. He’s never going to be able to prove he’s ready to face his father.

Not when he doesn’t even know if he can.

[farmhandler]

Spoken, Not Said

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Theseus/Asterius/Zagreus

Warnings: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Banter, Bickering, Theseus being Theseus, Slight spoilers            

CH: 2/?

WC: 5K~

Read on AO3

The multitude of reasons for why this is perhaps the foolhardiest thing Theseus has ever done in both his life and afterlife are made obvious the moment he exits his chambers to “face” his opponent in Elysium Stadium.

During their last battle, the daemon would find moments to speak with him, detailing a plan to aid in their escape from Elysium and find the Bull, Asterius. It is a basic order of events; that of which Theseus easily could have concocted in his sleep, no less! Were that he a horrible trickster, such as Zagreus, that is.

Zagreus stands on the opposite end of the stadium, his daemonic sword at his side once more. Theseus has felt its blows too many times to count, and even now he raises his chin, having no intention of making his victory an easy one.

“So you have returned again!” he calls boisterously. The crowds rise, cheering at the sound of his voice. Theseus grins wide with a practiced ease. “You really must enjoy being bested by me to have come so far so quickly. Well, by the power of the gods, we’ll see to it you remain yet in death!”

“Not even going to give me a chance to say hi?” Zagreus says, sounding bored. Truly, even though it may be within their shaky, agreed-upon truce, he is still but an uncouth, blatantly disrespectful creature. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got to get to the surface by noon to share lunch with my mother, and I’ve no idea what time it is.”

Often his speech is constantly riddled with peculiar sentiments and senseless asides. Asterius had once remarked at how he could be humorous even not the worst of times. Ha! Theseus sees no humor in him.

“On your guard!” Theseus roars, wasting no more time.

For all his preparedness, and despite knowing the truth lurking behind their shared façade, Theseus isn’t able to maintain much of a façade in the face of all of Elysium watching him. He fights the daemon dashing about the hallowed grounds with everything he has, as he always does and always will, because he knows no other way. To lose is to fail, and to fail on purpose?

Even so, he is not the only one giving it his all. Zagreus wields his enormous sword as though it weighs nothing; he slams it against Theseus’ shield hard enough to rattle his core, and he is incredibly light on his feet. In a single instance, he is able to step away from him and appear behind, delivering onto him blow after blow until the blood pooling in Theseus’ mouth overflows.

Still, he cannot bring himself to yield. Asterius may be his most important and dearest friend in this undying life, but he is King; he is King Theseus of Elysium—

Suddenly, his internal monologue comes to a thundering halt. Theseus looks down in shock, finding a sword thrust straight through his chest, mere minutes after they began. His grip loosens, going slack, and his spear slips from his fingers.

When he wakes up, he is in his chambers again.

The fury he had felt just moments ago feels distant and faded. It will be minutes before it returns and he feels himself, as is to be expected. The river Lethe washes away their aches and pains, but so does it dull their senses—their very memories if they allow it.

Theseus takes a few moments to stare at the architecture above his bed, admiring the intricate greenery surrounding figures in combat, as he so often does after losing a battle.

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. Since he was here last, a few butterflies have sneaked into his chambers and flutter by his bedside, surrounding the half–eaten apple resting on the end table.

He sits up and slides to the edge of bed. There are several apples in a basket nearby, untouched thus far. He had gathered them himself to give to Asterius on their next win. Asterius is fond of the taste of a fresh apple, nearly as much as nectar when they happen upon it.

Something in his chest constricts, binding him to the spot until he can make himself stand and head for the door.

The daemon is standing outside his door when he steps outside. Theseus is immediately struck by the oddness of the situation.

By the gods, he thinks, taking a moment to drink in the sight of him before he notices his presence. Are we really to do this?

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Zagreus greets him cheerfully upon noticing. His sword is free of blood and ichor, as though it were never there in the first place. “I made it look like I was going on ahead, then I came back around and bothered a few shades until I found your chambers. Is there a reason your doors are so big? Is it a test of strength to see if you deserve to lie down and sleep or something?”

“You insult the great architects of Elysium!” Theseus yells, nearly as loud as when they are in the stadium. Zagreus winces, raising and lowering his hands in a gesture meant to imply he be quiet. Fool! As if he can contain him, as if he has any right to even stand within five feet of him, with his muscled arms and nimble fingers.

“Are you going to do that the whole time?” Zagreus bites, keeping his voice low. “And I’ll have you know I’m very familiar with those who’ve worked on this place. They’re not all they’re cracked up to be, trust me. And we should probably get out of here before one of your service shades or whatever comes to check on you.”

Theseus makes a sound of discontent. To hold a conversation like this with someone who offers little to no respect to those greater than him should not be well within these halls. His fist closes around air, aching for his spear.

I gave you respect, and you threw it in my face. How’s that for respect, King?

Theseus grits his teeth and turns to march back into his chambers for his spear and shield. Moving beyond the fields into the unknown realms is unthinkable, but having Asterius taken from him even more so.

“Don’t enter my chambers,” he tells Zagreus before he steps away, who has not moved an inch. Once his position is assured, he finds his weapons and returns, eyeing his unwelcome companion with obvious distaste.

Was he always slightly taller than Theseus? Had his height always escaped him, or is this another feeble attempt to gain one up on Theseus?

“You are pathetically short, for a god,” he says upon approach, without thinking. He adds immediately after, “So are your false claims thus far, though I’ve a mind not to believe a single word that comes from your lying lips!”

Zagreus looks at him then, and Theseus feels inexplicably exposed.

“Listen, Theseus. If we’re going to do this, you’re going to have to try your best not to insult me every chance you get. I don’t like bullies and I’m not going to put up with it like Asterius will. Darkness knows why he does. He deserve so much better.”

Theseus’ grip tightens around his spear.

How is it that the daemon is able deflect everything Theseus says back at him, and much more painfully so? He is nothing; no, worse than nothing, and yet he would find ways to gnaw at Theseus’ insecurities.

Unbeknownst to his internal struggle, Zagreus carries on.

“We’re headed to Asphodel first. Though Tartarus is our resident torture realm, it‘s a little too close to the House. Asphodel is filled with magma and lava. He‘s got all that fur, so.” Zagreus shrugs. “If any place was going to cause Asterius the most suffering, it would be Asphodel.”

He continues to speak, but Theseus is barely listening, too consumed by his own thoughts. He opens his mouth to deliver a tirade on who exactly is putting up with whom, when the sounds of shades walking the path near his chambers echo around them. They are not far off; seconds within seeing the pair, and Theseus flounders for a moment, panic settling in.

If he is seen with Zagreus, it will truly spell the end.

“Come on!” Zagreus hisses at him. He gestures in the direction opposite to the approaching shades and then takes off without waiting to see if Theseus has followed. Theseus is then forced to really consider their foolhardy quest.

Is it worth risking his position? Is this truly worth risking everything he has worked so hard for his entire natural born life?

His mind unintentionally draws up the memory of Asterius shortly after he was promoted to the realm of Elysium. He had knelt on the ground in front of Theseus, gazing up at him with something akin to wonder. Even kneeling, he was frightfully tall.

“What have I done to deserve this chance, King Theseus?” he had asked.

Sometimes still Asterius would ask him that question, or allude to it, and Theseus’ heart would be plundered.

How could he not see?

Theseus steels himself with a breath and moves to follow the direction that Zagreus went.

“Gods, blood and darkness, gods, what am I doing? Why am I—?”

Zagreus lifts his head from where he’s worrying it between his palms when Theseus rounds the corner to the secluded spot. They are surrounded by lush greenery, obscuring other shades from peering in easily.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Zagreus says, sounding like he means the opposite. “Come on let’s just—follow me. We need to move quickly.”

For once, they are in agreement.

Zagreus leads him through tunnels and passageways long forgotten by most of the shades that wander the fields. Elysium is still recovering from his most recent thrashing, so the way is quiet and undisturbed. By the time they reach the passage, that is when reality begins to crash over him again.

Zagreus looks back at him. He looks nervous–frightened, even—casting him glances as if Theseus will turn around and pummel him with his spear. He would readily admit he is tempted, but his palms have become unreasonably sweaty despite the cool temperature of the realm.

“It’s just through here. Your pesky warriors won’t have come back just yet, so this is our best chance. I’m hoping the Hydra hasn’t reformed yet either.”

“Lernaean Hydra?” Theseus gasps. He has always been aware that it guards the passage to Elysium, but to know they are knowingly trespassing through its lair is another thing entirely!

“Know this, daemon—“

“Zagreus.”

“—If you are attempting to lure me into a trap, you will not succeed! Should you slay me, I will only return to my chambers, as healthy as I ever was! Nay, better than ever!”

“I know,” Zagreus drawls. “I’m risking a lot here, too, you know. If my father finds out I’m leading the King of Elysium on a rescue mission—“ he breaks off, then barks a laugh. “I’m not sure he’d believe it, if I’m being honest. I can’t quite believe it.”

“Your mind does seem remarkably unsound.”

The looks Zagreus shoots him is withering. He turns around, hefts his sword over his shoulder, and without another word stalks away towards the passage, disappearing past its glowing splendor.

Theseus hesitates, sweat pooling in every orifice. This is—this is blasphemy. The daemon Zagreus will lead him to ruin should he follow.

Then he thinks of Asterius, suffering from a torment unknown, and he lifts his chin, moving his feet until he passes through himself.

“Make no mistake, fiend!” Theseus calls the moment he catches sight of Zagreus. He’s standing at the center of a room with large pillars scattered about, staring at the lava as if he expects it will come alive. “I journey on this quest for Asterius and Asterius alone! Do not let my presence inflate your overimaginative ego.”

“Oh, blood and darkness, you don’t have sandals!” Zagreus cries when he’s close, ignoring his prior words completely.

“Sandals?”

“I didn’t even think about sandals.” He makes a motion as if to rip the hair from his head. “Look around us, King. I hope the shades of Elysium are fireproof. Or resistant.”

Theseus lifts his head and gazes at their surroundings. They are on an island—one of many —surrounded by lava and more islands. The molten liquid pools and drips over every orifice, and oh, the heat.

He no longer lives, nor breathes, but by whatever mechanism allows his body to continue with its existence has endowed him with the ability to sweat. The heat sinks into his skin quickly, and after a few minutes its oppressiveness threatens to steal his breath away.

“You look well,” he tells Zagreus. “It would suit your daemonic nature to find solace in this terrible heat, I am sure!”

Zagreus leans on his sword and regards Theseus. “I am Prince of the Underworld, you realize. If I can’t stand a little heat, I’d make a poor Prince. Besides, it’s not like I’m fireproof. Just fire resistant.”

He lifts one of his flaming feet into view and Theseus does not admire its structure, nor how the flames create a gradient much like a flower in full bloom.

He scoffs, casting his gaze about until it lands on a structure far off their current position. A coliseum, it looks like.

“Tell me, what lives on in that structure,” he demands, pointing.

Zagreus follows his finger and then nods. “That’s the coliseum. I’ve only been there once or twice; mostly I stick to the lava pools. It’s much faster. That’s the first place I think we should go. Giant pool of lava, no escape, etcetera. If Asterius is anywhere in Asphodel, he’ll be there.”

The coliseum is foreboding in size even without the lava cascading around it. Theseus walks along the island rock to find a better angle for viewing, and he hears Zagreus sigh.

“At least you’re not burning up on these rocks. Well” he pauses, and when Theseus looks at him, his eyes are glancing up and down his figure, taking in his sweaty appearance “no more than usual.”

His cheeks do not burn. “Your appreciation of me is noted. I, too, sometimes cannot help but marvel the way sweat gleams on these fine muscles.”

“Oh, for the love of Aphrodite—" Zagreus shakes his head and starts walking. Theseus has no choice but to follow.

That is not to say he is willing to stray behind like a lamb following its mother; he strides to Zagreus’ side, then even further, following whilst leading, as any King would do.

For most of the walk, there is silence. The Hydra has yet to reform, as have several of the souls Zagreus evidently dispatched prior to his trip through Elysium. Zagreus does not attempt to make conversation, and due to the heat and how carefully he must walk to avoid the hotter patches of magma infused rock, Theseus is quiet as well.

Eventually they reach a larger island that does contain a number of shades. Witches, Zagreus calls them. They wield dark magic that they send flying in their direction, but with Zagreus on the left and Theseus on the right, they are dealt with quickly.

“We’ll have to avoid the shades if we can,” Zagreus says. “We don’t want to risk any of them getting back to my father about all this.”

Theseus says nothing in reply, for once. His thoughts cling to the image of the wretched witches’ still dissipating images. Watching his spear fly through the gut of one of the witches made an odd unease settle over his spine. These shades may be wretches sent to live in this unpleasant place, but they are shades all the same. He is not their King, but he feels something tug at him to destroy them so readily.

For Asterius, he reminds himself firmly. For Asterius, I will stop at nothing.

After they have fully dissolved into nothing, an odd glowing object appears before Zagreus’ feet. His face lights up, and then he presses his palm to the surface of it, revealing the symbol of...of Ares.

“What is that?” Theseus demands, walking up to peer at it more closely. “What is the Boon of a god doing here? Were these witches able to somehow gain their favor?”

Instead of answering, Zagreus faces the Boon and says, “in the name of Hades! Olympus! I accept this message.”

The Boon glows brighter, and shortly after the voice of Ares booms in the cavernous space around them.

“Greetings, my death-inflicting kin. I see your fighting spirit hasn’t left you yet.”

Theseus watches in absolute bafflement as Zagreus is gifted a Boon of choice. He deliberates, whilst Theseus loses his mind.

“He has gifted you a Boon!” he belts, at length. “Ares, the god of war, gifting you—you—”

He flounders, a rare occurrence on its own, and Zagreus looks at him as though he is the one acting strange.

“They all have at some point or another. They want to help me reach the surface,” Zagreus tells him, as if it makes sense. “Though they don’t know I can’t survive up there for long.”

It makes no sense. The gods were generous enough to grant Theseus their favor, but only once he had proved himself a valiant and honorable warrior. He is the king of Elysium; he is deserving. This fiend; this wretch; this monster knows nothing. His supple flesh and his soft gaze know nothing.

I’m a god, in case you forgot.

“You are no god,” he says lowly. “In case you have forgotten, the reason Asterius is currently being tormented is due to your neglect!”

“Who have I been neglecting?” Zagreus replies, blinking in response to his sudden aggression.

“Your duty! Your honor! You act like no god I have ever known, traversing around the realms without a care for those you hurt in the process. Asterius—my dearest friend, my brother in arms—he is far more worthy than you!”

“Don’t act like you know me,” Zagreus says, his tone shifting from agreeable to threatening. “I feel bad about Asterius, but that’s my father’s doing. He doesn’t have to stand in my way, but he does. He doesn’t have to send you all after me, but he does.” Zagreus points a finger at him. “And anyway, you don’t know anything about my father, or me, or any of the other gods. Have you ever wondered why I’m trying to escape? Has it ever crossed your mind?”

“Ignorance swine, I think of you not! You are but to smear the filth trapped in recesses of my mind. Would that I could, I'd kill you where you stand!”

“Blood and darkness, I have never met someone so full of themselves in my life, and I lived surrounded by the worst shades mortals have to offer.” Zagreus’ fist curl at his side, and Theseus is suddenly aware of the slight glow of red coursing along his skin. His single wretched eye seems to glow even brighter under the dim haze of Asphodel. “I can’t believe that Asterius puts up with you! Even at your best, you’re just a self-righteous ass.”

“You dare bring Asterius into this! Have I not said you shan’t invoke his name?”

“I am helping you find him!” Zagreus snaps. “His name is going to come up!”

“Then try to restrain yourself! After all, he is missing because of you!”

“I am not my father!” Zagreus thunders. Theseus’ grip on his spear loosens as the world shifts, trembling underneath. Magma bubbles from open pockets in the ground. Zagreus is glowing with a dim, reddish light, and Theseus can feel Ares presence in the room, as though he is there.

Fear worms its way into Theseus’ chest. In that moment, gazing at Zagreus endowed with the gods’ favor, he is…

He is beautiful.

Then, mere moments after the display, Zagreus’ fierce expression softens into concern. He backs away from Theseus, concern transforming into guilt.

“I—I’m sorry. The magma, the...I didn’t…” Zagreus scratches the back of his neck, taking an aborted step towards Theseus. He raises his hand, then lowers it. “Ares’ Boon always keeps me a little more on edge. I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to hurt you. You didn’t even say that I…” He shakes his head, sending petals from his laurels floating into the air. “Darkness, you really do know how to get to me. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Theseus is still brandishing his shield in front of him—an instinctive and defensive action—and behind it his arms are trembling.

He really is like no other god.

“So you claim,” Theseus says. The sensation in his chest has formed into a hard knot; he will not name it guilt. “In this instance, I forgive you.”

The silence thereon after is distinctly uncomfortable. At length Zagreus sighs and motions for Theseus to follow him up the path towards the magma-drenched coliseum.

“Let’s just go. The sooner we find Asterius, the better.”

“Fine by me!”

Theseus slams his spear into the ground and then they’re off.

On the way, more shades rise to fight them. And on occasion, a Boon will be made available for Zagreus to take. There is always a message attached, and Theseus listens as each and every god and goddess expresses gratitude or interest in Zagreus’ well-being.

It’s nothing like he expected. In the face of the mounting evidence contrary to what he’s always believed, Theseus doesn’t know what to think.

Zagreus will sometimes look at him while he absorbs the Boon’s power, the expression on his face unreadable. Nothing about him changes physically, but Theseus can sense the difference now that he is so close. He feels like a fool for not noticing it before; for thinking that had somehow cheated his way into being granted their Boons.

Why? he wants to ask. Why do the gods help you?

Because they find me more worthy than you. Is that what you’re afraid to hear? that traitorous voice answers.

He angrily wipes sweat from his brow and charges ahead, past Zagreus and up the ramp leading to the coliseum.

Once they enter the coliseum grounds, Theseus understands why Zagreus claimed he could not do it on his own. Since embarking on their journey, he had his doubts—so far, they had met little resistance—but in seeing the enemies awaiting them, he is more convinced.

“That is…a lot of witches,” Zagreus says, peering around one of the pillars. From their position, they can’t see much of the magma pool, and Theseus is aching to get a better view and spot Asterius there. “Hypnos mentioned the witches were gathering their covens somewhere, but I didn’t realize it would be here.”

“Hmph.” Theseus squeezes past him and peers around the same doorway. “I can see now why you were so desperate for my aid.”

Zagreus shoot him a look. “Desperate is not the way I would put it.”

“Stand aside, daemon. I’ll vanquish these foes posthaste!”

“Would you please stop calling me that?“ Zagreus grumbles. He lifts his sword and starts inching towards the doorway, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s never still for long, Theseus has noticed. Always moving, always eager to face the next enemy. Quite the opposite of Asterius, who stays calm and collected even in the face of certain death. “I’ve dealt with these before. Stay far away, and keep your shield up!”

His advice soon proves to be sound. Zagreus dashes forward, sprinting with that same swiftness that Theseus in many instances has found dizzying. He hops from molten rock to molten rock, avoiding lava while slicing through the dark magic their enemies form and toss their way. Though Theseus has been forced with time to admit that Zagreus is an opponent to be feared, still he can’t take them all, and several pockets dark magic surge past him and bounce off the pillars towards Theseus.

His shield stands firm, as does he. When he isn’t strategically crouched behind its girth, he tosses his spear at witch after wretched witch. Several times Zagreus bears the full brunt of the witches’ magic, and they burn him just as surely as they would a mortal. Zagreus however, is the son of a god, so he keeps going, until they have managed to work their way through the worst of it.

There are just so many. It’s difficult for Theseus to find openings when there magic constantly cascades in his direction, nd Zagreus can’t move in close on the largest grouping of witches due to the enormous lava pool blocking his way. Were he with the Bull—

The thought stalls in his mind.

Such strategies are reserved for Asterius, he thinks firmly. Asterius may weigh more than two of him combined, but when they work together, tossing him towards Zagreus—or any enemy for that matter, is too easy.

And yet.

Asterius isn’t here, so you’ll have to make do with me. You want to die here and pretend that none of this ever happened, or do you want to win?

His fist tightens around his spear.

What’ll it be, King?

Theseus lowers his shield to look at their surroundings. Zagreus’ shoulders are scorched, and his chest is heaving as he fights nearly single-handedly at this point.

For Asterius, he thinks.

“Fiend!” he bellows, but Zagreus does not turn.

“Daemon!” he tries, but all that Zagreus does is crouch and burst forward, slicing through another swathe of magic. His shoulder muscles gleam with sweat—evidence of his efforts.

Swallowing down a curse, Theseus tries again. “Zagreus! To me!”

Zagreus’ entire body jolts. He turns to face him, eyes wide, but there isn’t time to marvel at his generosity. Once he recovers, he dashes to Theseus, and then, as he approached in range, Theseus calls out again:

“Dash into my shield! I shall propel you to the other side where the witches are!”

For a moment Zagreus expresses confusion, then his expression hardens with fierce determination. He speeds up, as fast as Theseus has ever seen him, and when the pounding of his feet is close, Theseus heaves his body forward at the same moment that Zagreus lands on his angled shield.

He is heavy; it is a wonder that Asterius is able to toss Theseus across the stadium as easily as he does. And truthfully, this is the strategy that he and Asterius had planned to employ later. He’s not certain he’s strong enough on his own.

But he will do it. He will not fail.

Theseus heaves him with a roar, hefting his shoulder against the weight of Zagreus pushing into him in preparing his own jump, and when he is released, he lifts his head over his shield so he can watch Zagreus sail across the lake of lava and land at the edge of the other island.

Theseus bursts into motion, getting as close as he dares while they prepare their next round of magics. As their attacks grow focused, he stabs as many with his spears as he can, taking out the ones that aim for Zagreus while he is otherwise occupied.

Several long minutes pass, and then finally, finally, they achieve their goal and vanquish them all.

“Haha! Yes!” Theseus booms, dropping his shield. He raises his fist triumphantly, and without a second thought he sets his shield into the lava and sends it towards Zagreus so he can make use of it as a makeshift boat.

This is what it is like to feel alive again. Surrounded by danger, circumventing certain death to achieve a goal and prove his merit—he can feel his blood burning in triumph.

Zagreus returns to him grinning and bouncing on his feet; hardly the picture he should be covered in burns and dust from their magic. He walks up to Theseus and Theseus to him, and together they clasp their right hands, as brothers in battle would.

“That was amazing!” Zagreus says. Both of his eyes burn into Theseus. The green one is a beautiful, shining emerald, but the other—

Realizing just who he‘s embracing, Theseus scrambles backward, still out of breath and sweating fiercely.

“You should not forget why it is we are here!” he says loud enough to drown out the pounding in his chest. “Whilst my skill is impressive, don’t let it get to your head.”

“Of course not,” Zagreus says. He cocks his head to one side and regards Theseus, still smiling a joyous, disarming smile. “I wouldn’t dare, King.”

There is an odd fondness in the way he says his title. “See that you don’t,” Theseus replies, relieved his voice remains even, since his heart refuses to.

He ignores the fluttering in his chest and moves to pick up his shield, only to pause once he realizes it still glows from the lava’s heat.

“I can hold onto that for a while,” Zagreus says behind him. “If you’d like.”

Theseus stares down at his shield, hands on his hips.

“I would never leave my precious shield in your hands, fiend,” he says, but it lacks the heat usually reserved for Zagreus. “Since we are already in a rush to find Asterius, I’ll overlook it this time.”

With that settled, he grabs his spear and glances around.

“Now: where is he?”

Zagreus sighs and reaches down to pick up Theseus’ shield. Though it still glows from the heat, he merely adjusts the way the handle rest in his hands.

“I thought he might be in the center of all that lava—father has punished a few people by leaving them there—but maybe he’s… Somewhere else in here.” Zagreus bounces from foot to foot, revving himself up. “I’m going to take a look around the more lava-ridden bits. You circle the outer ring and I’ll meet you up top.”

“Make it quick,” Theseus says. Zagreus nods, distracted, and hefts the shield over his shoulder. Then he jogs in the opposite direction, leaving Theseus to his own devices.

They search high and low, but due to the coliseum’s open passageways, it’s obvious very quickly that Asterius is not being housed there. There are several shades living in the coliseum, minding themselves, but when Theseus probes them for information, they have nothing to offer.

The hope that had been slowly flitting inside him is quickly dashed. He makes his way to the top of the coliseum, feeling like a fool, and when he arrives, Zagreus is already there. He appears pensive, and at the sound of Theseus approaching, he turns to face him.

“Well, it looks like he’s not here. There are few more places in Asphodel I’d like to try, but if he’s not there…” Zagreus trails off uncertainly.

“You brought me to the sorry place just inform me that Asterius is not here?” Theseus places his hands on his hips. “You claimed you knew, yet you’ve dragged me to this place and not a scrap of him to show for it! I should have expected as much.”

“I said I know where he might be. There’s more to Asphodel than this coliseum, Theseus.” Zagreus frowns. “We have a few more places to check.”

He doesn’t say what he expects to happen in the event that Asterius is not in Asphodel and they must confront other realms. Theseus also doesn’t want to consider its implications, so instead they agree to continue their search. After all, what choice does he have? He has set in motion events that he cannot back away from. Even though his body aches and he is covered in sweat in a way he hasn’t been since he was alive, he will not falter.

He will find Asterius, and they will go on from there.